I    q  r  I  inn  r^-  ^'"'^^  ^^  ^^"^- 

;i;^^ffi[ll»«,g[l_(jj,|v]g 

*^^  .MANTIC  STORY  BASED    UPON 

Martin  J. DIXON'S  popular  play  of  ths 
NAME .  By  grace  miller  1  white 


■i.V.i 


ww.archive.orq/details/childofslumsromaOOwhitrich 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 


A  ROMANTIC  STOR/ 


Of  New  York  Life  Based  Upon  Martin  J.  Dixon *b^ 
Play  of  the  Same  Name. 


BV- 


GRACE  MILLER  WHITE, 

Author  of  **  Driven  From  Home,"  '*  Joe  Welch  the  Peddler/ 

*'No  Wedding  Bells  for  Her,"   *'Sky  Farm,"   »»A 

Midnight    Marriage,"    **  Souvenir   Book   of 

•  'Way  Down  East*."  **  Why  Women 

Sin,"  Etc..  Etc. 


COPTEIGHT,  1904,  BY 

i.  S.  OoiiiViB  Publishing  Company. 


New  York: 
J.  S.  OGILVIE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 

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A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  LARGE  crowd  of  students  Were  running  from 
the  Harvard  College  gr<)untlsLdoW'n  i^ir^  jtlje  road- 
way. Tiieir  strong  bodies  swaying  in  the  wind 
as  they  dashed  on  were  indicative  of  strength 
and  muscle.  On  and  on,  over  the  rolling  hills 
and  into  the  valley,  panted  the  boys  until  they 
reached  a  spot  where  the  long  branches  casting 
their  shadows  over  the  road  spoke  of  cool  retreats 
and  lovers^  nooks. 

A  little  winding  path  led  into  the  wood,  but 
the  boys  did  not  make  a  move  to  enter. 

^'Are  you  sure  this  is  the  place?"  said  one. 

'Well,  isn't  it  the  Three  Comers?  Ever  since 
i  have  been  in  college  Vve  known  its  name." 

The  speaker  was  tall,  strong  and  handsome^ 
z 

970514 


4  A   CHILD  OF  THE   SLFMS. 

He  tossed  the  damp  hair  from  his  brow  and  pro 
(!eeded : 

^^Now,  fellows,  you  know  that  Frank  is  not 
the  same  boy  he  was  two  months  ago.  He  is 
morbid,  and  I  know  something  has  happened.  I 
say  it  is  our  duty  to  jack  him  up  a  bit.  Now,, 
Dick,  what  did  he  say  over  the  'phone?'' 

Richard  Gerson  thought  a  moment  before  re- 
plying. He  did  not  wisji  to  make  his  room-mate 
any  tr6ut)le.  "  feut  Frank  had  been  so  unsociable 
and*  ujicpramunicfative  o(  late.  His  handsome 
face  bore  an  anxious  expression  as  he  lingered 
in  his  thoughts.  For  the  three  years  in  college 
he  had  been  nearest  to  Frank  Wentworth  of  all 
the  boys.  Their  secrets  had  been  shared  with 
pne  another  until  they  had  been  called  by  the 
rest  of  their  fraternity  "the  Siamese  twins." 

But  as  Richard  Gerson  had  said,  Frank  had 
forgotten  the  old  days,  and  another  love  was  fill- 
ing up  his  life.    The  waiting  man  still  waited  4 
and  the  other  five  students  kept  silent. 

Presently  he  said : 

"I  heard  him  tell  the  girl  over  the  'phone  that 
he  would  meet  her  at  the  Three  Corners  as  usuaL 


A  CHILD   OF  THE  BLUMS.  5 

He  seemed  afraid  that  she  would  not  come,  for 
so  many  times  did  he  entreat  her  that  I  thought 
he  was  going  to  spend  the  day  with  the  receiver 
at  his  ear.^^ 

"And  did  his  voice  sound  kind  of  mushy?"  ven- 
tured a  youth  with  eyes  brimming  over  with  mis- 
chief. 

"Shut  up,  Sammy;  what  do  you  know  of  love?'' 
This  from  another  big  fellow,  chewing  a  straw. 

"Well,  I'll  know  enough  not  to  let  any  of  you 
know  of  it,  don't  worry,  though  I  am  not  yet  in 
«uch  a  dangerous  position." 

Saying  this  he  gave  a  long  leap,  lighting  upon 
his  shoulders  and  turning  a  double  somersault. 

^'Sit  down,  Sam,"  ordered  the  leader  of  the 
group.  "This  is  no  time  for  folly.  Just  remem- 
ber this  may  be  our  first  experi€nce  in  drawing 
one  of  the  fraternity  before  us.  I  don't  like  the 
look  of  this,  but  we  cannot  allow  the  name  of  the 
^Frat.'  to  come  to  ill-repute." 

It  was  Carl  Duncan  who  had  been  gravely 
speaking.  His  mouth  drew  down  at  the  corners 
w^hile  his  blue  eyes  scanned  the  road  toward  the 
college. 


ig  A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS. 

Sammy  accepted  the  rebuke  and  seated  him??elt 
as  much  in  the  shadow  as  possible. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  fellows  w^ant  to  meddle 
in  Frank's  business,"  grumbled  he.  "I'd  givel 
you  a  fight  for  your  money,  and  don't  you  forget 
it.  The  very  idea  that  a  fellow  can't  fall  in  love 
if  he  wants  to !  Don't  every  one  of  you  have  girls 
in  the  town  that  you  call  upon?" 

"But  we  don't  fall  in  love,  Kid,'^  answered 
Duncan,  "nor  make  it  apparent  by  our  actions 
that  something  is  going  on.  Frank  Wentworth 
is  a  different  boy,  and  it  is  well  for  his  friends 
not  to  allow  him  to  do  anything  rash." 

"And  we  don't  make  our  voices  mushy  over 
the  'phone,  either,  Sammy,"  put  in  Gerson,  try- 
ing to  soothe  his  conscience.  He  had  brought 
the  wrath  of  the  "Frat."  upon  his  friend,  he  knew,, 
but  no  harm  could  possibly  come  of  it — only  a 
little  fun. 

"Maybe  you  wouldn't  have  heard  the  mush 
tone,"  replied  the  boy,  "if  you  had  not  been  lis- 
tening. It's  a  mean  shame  to  spy  upon  a  fellow's 
heart  affairs,  I  think." 

"Go  'way  back  and  sit  down,"  laughed  another. 


A   CHILD   OP  THE   SLUMS.  7 

*^for,  Sammy,  you  are  young;  it  will  be  many 
days  before  you  realize  the  fitness  of  things.'' 

"I  have  an  idea,"  began  Duncan,  peering  into, 
the  wood,  "that  they  will  walk  there,"  pointing 
toward  a  shady,  well-worn  spot.    "If  so,  then  we  " 
had  better  hide — I  want  to  see  it  all." 

"Horrid  shame!"  muttered  Sammy,  as  he  re- 
luctantly followed  the  rest  to  a  sheltered  posi- 
tion  where  each  pair  of  eyes  could  scan  any  scene 
which  might  be  enacted  close  by. 

Richard  Gerson  thought  of  the  time  when  he 
had  first  met  the  boy  he  had  betrayed  to  his  col- 
lege friends*  He  could  well  remember  choosing 
him  as  his  room-mate,  and  in  all  the  three  yeai  s^ 
that  had  followed  he  had  not  for  one  moment 
been  sorry.  They  were  both  orphans,  living  with 
uncles  when  home.  As  he  crouched  ^^^^in(l  a 
large  moes-covered  log  Dick  Gei-son,  as  Ir> 
friends  called  him,  wished  that  he  jhad  allowc  . 
his  receiver  to  rest  upon  the  hook  before  he  hi\l 
heard  his  chum  plead  with  some  soft-toned  gii  i . 
that  she  meet  him  just  this  once  at  their  trystiug^ 
spot  at  Three  Comers.  And  much  more  did  lie 
wish  that,  after  hearing,  he  had  kept  it  from  the 


3  A   CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

other  boys — but  Duncan  was  holding  up  his 
finger  as  a  warning  for  silence. 

Each  boy  could  hear  the  hum  of  a  girPs  voice 
in  the  distance  and  knew  that  she  was  coming 
toward  them.  The  quiet  that  reigned  was  as 
absolute  as  if  six  living,  breathing  beings  were 
not  in  hiding  among  the  moss-covered  logs.  The 
constant  twitter  of  the  birds  seeking  their  nests 
for  the  night  filled  the  fast  gathering  dusk,  while 
the  twilight  shadows  fell  from  the  trees  as  a 
warning  that  darkness  was  approaching. 

Suddenly  from  some  spot,  and  no  boy  after- 
ward could  tell  from  just  where,  a  girl  sprang 
into  view.  At  first  the  twilight  made  it  impos- 
sible to  see  aught  but  the  graceful  form  as  it 
neared  the  wood,  but  as  she  came  into  bold  relief 
at  the  entrance  every  watcher,  even  Sammy, 
caught  his  breath.  She  hesitated  a  moment  in 
Lier  song,  and  ventured  not  into  the  shadows  until 
i^lie  had  anxiously  peered  for  a  witness  among 
the  trees.  However,  she  seemed  satisfied  and 
walked  straight  toward  the  log  behind  which 
Eichard  Gerson,  Carl  Duncan  and  Sammy  were 
in  hiding.     She  seated  herself  and  spread  her 


A   CHILD   OF  THE   SLUMS.  9 

pretty  skirts  and  proceeded  to  wait  for  the  com- 
ing of  her  lover.  "Good  Lord/'  groaned  Sammy, 
in  Carl's  ear;  "ain't  she  a  beauty?  Any  boy  that 
doesn't  forgive  the  mush  tone  for  her  ought  to  be 
licked !"  The  youth  was  effectually  silenced  by 
a  severe  jab  from  the  other's  elbow.  He  subsided 
and  waited.  The  song  was  still  rippling  from 
the  rosy  lips  of  the  girl : 

*^The  hours  I've  spent  with  you,  dear  heart, 
Are  as  a  string  of  pearls  to  me." 

The  hum  had  broadened  into  words,  and  the 
students  could  hear  the  trembling  lips  sing  to 
the  coming  lover  that  the  hours  spent  with  him 
had  been  as  the  incense  from  her  rosary.  Not 
'  me  boy  among  the  hiding  number  was  not  sorry 
that  he  had  ventured  upon  such  love  as  he  in- 
tuitively felt  the  girl  capable  of.  Her  dark  hair 
was  coiled  into  a  mass  upon  the  unhatted  head. 
The  fair  skin,  as  she  sang,  dimpled  with  blushes 
and  paled  with  emotion.  Once  in  a  while  she 
leaned  far  over  and  looked  searchingly  into  the 
road,  as  if  the  coming  of  some  one  were  the 
main  object  of  her  visit  to  the  spot. 


10  A   CHILD   OP  THE   SLUMS. 

"I  think  I  am  a  little  early,"  the  boys  behind 
the  log  heard  her  murmur,  softly.  "But  I'll 
wait/^  and  again  the  song  began : 

'^Oh,  memories  that  bless  and  burn, 
Oh,  barren  gain  and  bitter  loss, 
I  kiss  each  bead  and  strive  at  last  to  learn  to 
kiss  the  cross.'' 

Here  the  song  ended,  and  the  watchers  sav,-  Iior 
quiver  as  if  striving  with  a  storm.  Then  she  rose 
from  the  log  and  waited  in  silence.  The  soiio;! 
of  rapid  footsteps  fell  upon  the  six  listening  ears 
and  six  pairs  of  envious  eyes  saw  their  class- 
mate clasp  the  beautiful  form  close  to  his  heart 
while  his  lips  rested  upon  the  tender  mouth 
raised  to  his.  Richard  Gerson  from  his  point  of 
^vantage  could  see  the  intensity  with  which  the 
girl  was  strained  to  the  man's  breast;  he  could 
hear  the  fluttering  breath  as  his  room-mate's, 
companion  struggled  with  her  emotion. 

"My  sweetheart,"  whispered  Frank  Went- 
w^orth,  "I  was  so  afraid  you  would  not  come;  I 
just  had  to  see  you.*' 

The  students  in  hiding  each  frft  that  he,  too^, 


A  CHILD   OF  THE   SLUMS.  H 

desired  some  girl  to  cling  to  him  in  that  con- 
fiding way,  the  sentiment  of  which  was  enhanced 
by  the  shadows  of  the  oncoming  night.  She  an- 
swered not  for  a  moment,  but  then  said : 

"It  would  have  been  better,  dear,  not  to  have 
come  again,  but  I,  too,  wanted  to  see  you  and 
tell  you  how  very  much  I  love  you." 

"I  know  that  you  do  love  me,  dear,"  whispered 
Wentworth,  "but  I  so  fear  losing  you  that  my 
heart  stands  still  in  fright.  Tell  me  that  you  will 
never  love  another  man  as  long  as  you  live." 

It  had  grown  so  dark  now  that  the  faces^ 
of  the  two  lovers  could  be  seen  but  dimly.  The 
last  flush  of  the  sun  had  deepened  into  a  dull 
grey,  melting  the  shadows  into  one  long  strip 
upon  the  road. 

The  silent  watchers  resting  on  their  mossy  beds 
wished  themselves  anywhere  but  there  when  they 
noticed  that  the  man  drew  the  beautiful  girl  to- 
ward the  log  upon  which  she  had  first  rested^ 
when  coming  into  the  wood. 

"We  will  sit  here  for  a  few  moments,  Euth,. 
dear,''  said  Wentworth;  "for  it  will  soon  be  time 


12  A  CHILD   OP  THE  SLUMS. 

for  you  to  go.  Does  your  auntie  know  that  you 
are  out  here?" 

"No,  I  ran  away,"  smiled  the  girl.  "Dear  old 
auntie,  how  she  would  open  her  eyes  if  she  only 
knew  that  I  loved  you !" 

"Frank  took  the  small  hands  in  his.  He 
pressed  them  to  his  lips  with  evident  passion 
in  his  movements. 

"And  are  you  sure,  my  darling,  that  you  do 
love  me?" 

"More  than  I  can  express.  I  can  only  tell  you 
that  a  complete  change  has  come  over  my  life, 
and  that  you  are  the  center  of  my  universe." 

Gerson  heard  the  words,  and  so  did  Sammy. 

The  latter  thrust  his  fist  into  his  mouth  to  pre- 
vent a  laugh  that  he  was  sure  was  coming.  Only 
Duncan  dropped  his  head  in  shame.  He  had  not 
imagined  that  any  such  love  was  for  Frank 
Wentworth. 

"Will  you  marry  me,  Euth,  immediately?" 

Each  student  held  his  breath  to  hear  the 
answer. 

"Not  until  you  have  finished  your  course.  We 
are  both  too  young  yet  to  be  thinking  of  getting 


A   CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  IS 

married,  and  then,  too,  I  want  to  be  sure  of 
auntie's  consent — she  has  been  so  very  good  to 
me  since  mother  died,''  and  the  girl  wiped  away 
a  tear. 

Sammy  gurgled  behind  the  log. 

^^Did  you  hear  a  sound?"  asked  Butk,  looking 
around,  startled. 

^^Nothing  but  the  twittering  of  a  bird,"  was  her 
lover's  answer. 

^^You  see,"  went  on  the  girl,  "I  have  never  had 
a  lover  before,  Frank.  Auntie  doesai^t  know 
about  you.  If  she  did  she  would  not  allow  me 
to  come  to  the  wood  to  see  you." 

"But,  darling,  when  we  love  each  other  so  very 
much  it  is  right  that  we  should  be  together.  When 
a  man  loves  a  woman  like  I  do  you,  there  is  na 
power  on  earth  that  ought  to  keep  them  apart. 
Do  you  understand,  Ruth?" 

The  girl  hid  her  face  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
boy,  while  the  silent  students  in  watching  nearby 
groaned  inwardly. 

"But  you  have  promised  to  be  my  wife  some 
day,  Ruth,  haven't  you?"  asked  the  student- 
lover,  anxiously. 


Id  A    CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS. 

^'Some  day,  oh,  yes;  I  should  be  unhappy  if  I 
did  not  know  that  we  are  to  be  always  in  a  little 
home  of  our  own.    I  love  you,  Frank." 

Kiehard  Gerson  smothered  an  oath  as  he  lis- 
tened, and  Sammy  gurgled  down  a  laugh. 

All  the  students,  now  sorry  for  their  part  of 
the  game,  would  have  given  much  had  they  been 
able  to  sneak  out  as  quietly  as  they  had  come. 
But  there  was  no  way,  and  the  lover  was  still 
entreating  his  sweetheart  to  love  none  but  him. 

"I  cannot  study  now,  dearest,  unless  I  know 
just  where  you  are.  You  would  not  love  some 
one  else  besides  me,  would  you?" 

^^No,  indeed,"  chimed  back  the  soft  voice.  The 
girl's  face  had  been  lost  in  the  twilight.  "I  shall 
always  love  you  and  promise  that  when  you  are 
ready  for  me  I  shall  follow  you  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth.'' 

If  the  girl  could  have  looked  into  the  future 
and  seen  how  two  of  those  present  were  to  figure 
in  her  life  she  would  have  shudderingly  turned 
away,  but  her  happy  heart  had  not  an  inkling  of 
what  was  coming,  and  she  cooed  out  her  affection 
for  the  man  in  whose  arms  she  rested. 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  1^ 

^^I  don't  think  I  shall  come  again,  dear  Frank,'^ 
said  she,  as  the  boy  led  her  from  the  wood.  "I 
think  I  am  doing  wrong.  Anntie  would  feel  that 
I  had  deceived  her  were  I  to  go  on  this  way.  I'll  ^ 
tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  and  each  pair  of  hidden ' 
ears  were  strained  to  get  a  sound  of  the  voice. 
^^I'il  ask  auntie  to  let  you  come  to  the  house^ 
and  if  she  will  not,  then  I  will  remember  that 
I  am  the  same  as  your  wife.  When  you  are 
ready  for  me,  come,  and  I  shall  go." 

"Yum,  yum,"  howled  Sammy,  as  the  lovers  dis- 
appeared down  the  road,  and  six  stiff  students 
arose  in  the  moonlight.  "Yum,  yum,"  said  he 
again,  smacking  his  lips. 

"Shut  up.  Kid,"  gasped  Duncan.  "We  made 
fools  of  ourselves,  that's  all  I  can  say.  Frank's 
welcome  to  his  girl,  if  he  wants  her;  she  is  a 
dandy." 

"And  any  fellow  here  would  be  dying  glad  to 
^  have  just  such  a  one,"  put  in  Sammy,  refusing  to 
be  squelched. 

"Frank  loves  her  and  she  loves  him,"  said  Ger- 
son,  "and  I  vote  that  we  let  the  aunt  decide 
whether  he  is  to  see  her  again. '^ 


{Igj  A   CHILD  OP  THE   SLUMS. 

"I  say  so,  too/'  said  the  indomitable  Samm} , 
"and  if  she  is  at  all  like  an  old  maid  aunt  of 
mine  she'll  keep  them  so  far  apart  that  the  girl 
will  have  but  memories  to  bless  and  burn." 

Sammy  was  now  in  the  road,  and  the  other  five 
were  following,  rubbing  their  tired  sides. 

Duncan  had  said  but  little.  He  was  thinking 
of  a  wee  miss  he  loved  in  his  far-away  home.  As 
they  walked  toward  the  college  Gerson  said^ 
*What  are  you  going  to  do,  Prep?" 

"Nothing  that  will  make  the  little  girl  strive 
at  last  to  kiss  the  cross.'' 

Sammy  hearing  the  sentimental  remark,  tossed 
his  hat  high  in  the  air,  "Listen  to  the  professor, 
the  sentimental  Tommy,"  cried  he.  "Wouldn't 
that  make  you  sick ;  he  was  the  most  strenuous 
to  hear  the  love-making,  and  now  listen !" 

The  little  freshman  received  a  large  kick 
which  he  tried  to  escape,  running  as  fast  as  his 
legs  could  carry  him. 

A  private  council  held  among  the  students  of 
the  Fraternity,  to  which  Frank  Wentworth  be- 
longed, ended  in  the  decision  that  nothing  should 


A   CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.  17 

be  done  to  the  member  nor  any  steps  taken  which 
would  make  him  unhappy. 

When  Ruth  Ferris  was  alone  that  evening 
dressing  for  dinner  she  thought  long  upon  the 
promise  she  had  made  to  Frank.  She  would  ask 
her  aunt  if  she  could  have  him  call  at  the  house. 
Ruth  dreaded  her  relative's  displeasure,  but  be- 
ing a  stout-hearted  little  maiden  she  finished  her 
toilet  and  descended  the  stairs,  where  fehe  found 
her  aunt  waiting  dinner. 

'  "You  are  late,  Ruth,  my  dear,"  severely  said 
the  good  woman.  "I  wish  you  would  give  up 
your  jaunts  in  the  wood  and  come  in  early  enough 
to  be  at  the  table  as  the  gong  sounds.  It  will  not 
be  long  before  you  have  a  home  of  your  own.  Re- 
member, all  well-conducted  houses  have  a 
methodical  mistress.'' 

"But  I  do  not  want  a  house  yet,  auntie,  and  I 
could  not  live  unless  I  went  to  hear  the  birds 
sing  and  to  say  good-night  to  the  flowers.  Please, 
dear,  do  not  take  this  pleasure  from  me." 

"Well,  then,  come  in  on  time,  or  I  shall  have 
to  curtail  your  liberty."    There  was  such  a  frown 


18  A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS. 

upon  the  lady's  face  that  Ruth  did  not  dare 
broach  the  subject  of  Frank,  but  as  the  meal  pro- 
ceeded and  the  wrinkles  faded  from  the  broad, 
smooth  brow  of  Miss  Ferris,  Ruth  plucked  up 
t'ourage,  and  when  they  were  in  the  drawing- 
room  she  sank  upon  a  little  stool,  where  for  years 
it  had  been  her  custom  to  be,  and  took  her  aunt's 
hand  in  hers. 

^^Auntie,"  she  began,  timidly,  "I'm  getting  to 
be  a  big  girl  now,  am  I  not?'' 

"Too  big  to  wander  in  the  brushwood  and  hunt 
birds'  nests  in  the  forest." 

"Then  if  I  am  a  young  lady,  should  I  not  have 
the  privileges  of  one?"  This  question  caused  the 
older  woman  to  look  searchingly  into  the  pretty 
face. 

"If^Tiat  do  you  mean?  Do  you  not  take  lessons 
upon  the  piano,  and  have  you  not  a  French 
teacher?" 

"Yes,  but  I  have  no  lover,  like  the  rest  of  the 
^irls  I  know." 

The  ice  was  broken,  and  Ruth  waited. 

"Well,  thank  the  Lord  for  that!"  ejaculated 
the  aunt.    "If  I  should  see  one  coming,  I  would 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.  19 

treat  him  the  same  way  that  I  do  the  dogs  that 
tramp  upon  my  flowers,  and  don't  forget  it !'' 

"You  would  not  shoot  him,  auntie?'' 
>     "Yes;  I  would  fill  him  full  of  small  shot  as 
quick  as  a  wink,  so  tell  him  to  stay  away." 

Euth  shuddered  as  in  her  mind  she  could  see 
poor  Frank  flying  before  the  rage  of  her  aunt, 
who  had  just  sworn  she  would  shoot  him. 

She  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time,  and  then 
opened  her  lips,  but  closed  them  immediately. 

"What  were  you  going  to  say,  Ruth?"  asked 
the  old  lady. 

"That  I  do  love  a  dear  boy,  and  wanted  you 
to  allow  him  to  come  and  see  me.  Oh,  auntie, 
if  you  only  knew  how  much  I  want  him  all  the 
time." 

"Tut,  tut,  now  none  of  that.  If  in  your 
rambles  about  you  have  met  one  of  those  dread- 
ful students,  I  bid  you  to  forget  him,  and  don't  let 
me  see  him  here." 

Ruth  beard  the  ultimatum  with  heavy  heart 
She  knew  that  her  aunt  meant  just  what  she  said. 

She  simply  acquiesced  by  a  nod  of  thie  head, 
and  with  great  dignity  rose  and  walked  to  the 


go  A   CHILD   OP   THE  SLUMS. 

window.  The  wind  had  risen  since  dinner,  and 
the  long  arms  of  the  trees  bent  their  branchef? 
in  the  moonlight.  How  often  she  had  walked 
back  from  the  woodland  with  her  dear  one,  and 
how  long  would  it  be  before  she  would  see  him. 
again? 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  2Z 


CHAPTER  II. 

Ruth  sat  with  her  pen  suspended  oyer  a  let- 
ter. Her  eyes  were  suffused  with  tears,  some  of 
the  bright  drops  having  blotched  the  paper. 
Picking  it  up  she  read,  in  a  half-audible  voice : 

^^Darling  Frank  : 

"It  almost  breaks  my  heart  to  write  you  this, 
but  as  auntie  says  it  must  be,  then  I  say  so,  too* 
You  know  there  is  hidden  in  her  breast  an  old 
dead  love,  for  long  ago  a  man  cruelly  trifled 
with  her  when  she  was  but  a  girl.  She  insists 
that  I  shall  not  meet  the  same  fate — ^not  know- 
ing, of  course,  your  dear,  noble  self.  I  tried  to 
argue  with  her,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  She  simply 
refused  to  listen  and  said  all  sorts  of  mean  things 
about  mankind  in  general.  I  shall  not  meet  you 
at  our  trysting  place  again,  but  you  know,  my 
darling,  that  I  love  you.    All  the  aunties  in  the 


22'  A   CHILD  OF   THE  SLUMS. 

world  could  not  tear  that  part  from  me.  Yon 
will  leave  the  university  this  year,  and  as  soou 
as  you  are  ready  for  me  to  come  to  jon,  yoii 
have  but  to  call*  I  shall  ansiiv^er.  I  hope  y( 
will  not  take  this  too  much  to  heart.  You  re 
member  that  I  told  you  auntie  was  my  best  friend 
in  all  the  world,  and  I  cannot  now  be  deceitful 
with  her.  Every  night  I  shall  pray  for  my  lover^ 
for  when  he  goes  out  in  the  great  city  of  New 
Y^ork  he  will  need  them.  If  it  happens  so,  then 
I  shall  be  able  to  bid  you  farewell.  With  kisses 
and  love,  I  shall  always  be  your  own     Ruth." 

The  girl  folded  the  letter  and  with  many  sobs 
and  tears  sealed  it.  She  walked  slowly  up  and 
down  the  room,  wondering  what  her  life  would 
be  when  the  handsome  youth  she  loved  was  no 
longer  there.  The  day  was  stormy,  in  accord 
with  the  tumult  of  her  heart.  She  could  hear  the 
rain  beating  upon  the  trees  while  the  wind 
moaned  among  the  pines,  lashing  the  branches 
and  filling  the  air  with  shrieks  that  sent  shudders 
over  Ruth  as  she  turned  toward  the  window. 

Out  in  the  distance  she  could  see  the  long^^ 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  'Z3> 

white,  wet  road  over  which  her  feet  had  sped  to- 
ward yonder  woodland  to  meet  the  boy  to  whom 
she  had  just  sent  the  letter.  By  straining  hei" 
eyes  a  little  she  could  even  discern  the  opening; 
among  the  trees  where  for  days  past  she  had 
seated  herself  upon  the  log  and  waited  for  the 
sound  of  his  footsteps.  Sheets  of  water  were 
being  poured  from  the  sky  upon  the  bending 
trees,  while  the  raging  wind  shook  it  off  like  some 
great  mastiff  shakes  himself  after  a  bath  in  the 
sea.  This  was  a  day  in  keeping  with  Ruth's 
feelings.  She  stood  by  the  window,  her  tears  fall- 
ing fast,  and  watched  the  weeping  sky.  Sud- 
denly she  thought  she  saw  Frank  come  from  the 
wood,  followed  by  another  man  who  crept  after 
her  lover  with  silent  footsteps.  With  great  fasci- 
nation she  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  spectral  scene. 
Frank  seemed  to  turn  toward  her  while  the  otlu  r 
man  kept  in  his  shadow.  Amid  the  falling  dio^v^ 
she  could  see  that  the  other  was  not  as  tail  :ir, 
Frank  but  much  the  same  type. 

Then  came  a  part  in  the  scene  which  calb  v 
forth  a  groan  from  Ruth,  and  when  she  took  her 
hands  from  her  eyes  the  phantom  had  disap- 


24  A.  CHILD  OP  THE  SLtTMS. 

peared.  The  shadow  man  in  the  rear  of  Frank 
had  with  a  mighty  strength  felled  the  girPs  loved 
one  to  the  earth.  The  heated  imagination  of 
Euth  could  almost  see  the  writhings  of  the  fallen 
man.  She  turned  away  sickened,  knowing  that  it 
was  but  a  trick  of  her  fancy,  and  looking  again 
there  were  but  the  tossing  branches  and  the  long, 
white  road  shining  wet  with  the  drops  of  rain. 

Euth,  with  a  dread  of  some  future  event  which 
was  going  to  happen  to  Frank,  went  to  her  own 
room  to  pass  weary,  lonely  hours  of  waiting,  and 
for  what?  She  knew  it  would  be  years  before 
she  would  be  able  to  marry  him;  he  was  but  a 
youth,  and  his  way  in  the  world  hard  to  make. 
She  had  a  small  fortune  and  was  the  heiress  of 
her  aunt,  also  an  old  uncle.  Frank  knew  this, 
for  his  uncle  and  Euth's  were  firm  friends,  and 
once  her  lover  had  told  her  that  he  would  ask  his 
uncle  to  use  his  influence  to  persuade  the  aunt 
with  whom  the  girl  was  living  to  allow  the  young 
people  to  see  each  other.  It  happened,  though, 
that  the  old  lady  had  no  idea  of  being  won  over 
from  her  favorite  position. 

So  the  matter  ended  and  Euth  and  Fraikk  were 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  25 

kept  apart.     The  days  flew  by  and  the  summer 
time  was  at  hand.    Frank  stood  at  the  top  of  his 
<^lass  and  received  the  highest  honors  the  college 
■^  could  bestow. 

Euth  watched,  from  her  seat  in  the  gallery,  her 
boy  as  he  entered  the  platform  and  delivered  his 
essay.  All  the  aunts  and  uncles  were  there,  with 
the  exception  of  the  one  Euth  lived  with.  She 
gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  it  was  a  waste  of 
precious  time  to  sit  under  the  Harvard  flag  and 
listen  to  a  dozen  or  more  orations  which 
amounted  to  nothing  in  the  end.  But  she  had 
given  Euth  her  permission  to  go,  and  upon  look- 
ing once  more  into  the  face  of  her  lover  the  girl 
determined  to  speak  to  him.  She  felt  that  he 
would  leave  for  the  city  the  next  day  and  that 
the  town  would  know  him  no  more.  She  waited 
until  he  had  finished  his  speaking  and  had  taken 
his  seat  Three  times  he  rose  to  bow  to  the  audi- 
ence which  had  realized  the  genius  in  him.  Then 
while  Eichard  Gerson  was  making  his  way  to  the 
platform,  Euth  caught  the  eye  of  Prank.  Slowly 
he  rose  to  his  feet  again.  The  girl  knew  that  he 
was  coming  to  her.    Fiercely  as  her  heart  beat 


26  A  CHILD  OP  THE  5»L.UMS. 

she  waited  outwardly  calm  and  ready.  She 
watched  him  as  he  made  his  way  to  the  gallery 
steps  and  lost  him  in  the  crowd.  But  in  an  in- 
stant he  was  at  her  side  looking  deep  into  her 
eyes  and  questioning  her  mutely  f^r  a  little  con- 
versation. 

"Will  you  not  come  with  me,  only  a  moment, 
Buth?"  ^ 

The  pain  in  his  eyes  was  pictured  in  her  own. 
Her  heart  swelled  to  a  bursting  point  and  she  felt 
rebellious  toward  her  aunt,  who  had  laid  down 
the  stern  law  that  she  should  not  love  this  noble 
fellow  who  had  already  won  her  heart. 

She  followed  him  into  the  open  air  and  he  drew 
her  into  the  shadow  where  no  living  eye  could 
witness  the  love  scene.  Back  into  the  girPs  mind 
came  the  memory  of  the  day  in  the  rain,  when 
she  had  seen  a  man  steal  from  the  shadow  and 
strike  her  lover.  It  would  have  been  better  for 
her  future  if  Ruth  had  noticed  the  handsome  fel- 
low who  followed  Frank  to  the  platform.  Would 
she  have  noted  the  resemblance  in  the  two  men, 
and  would  she  have  compared  Richard  Gersoii 


A  CHILD  OP  THE   SLUMS.  27 

with  the  ghost  that  walked  the  wide  road  on  that 
rainy  day? 

But  Prank  was  kissing  her  and  her  arms  were 
about  his  neck.  For  a  few  moments  she  would 
be  happy,  auntie  or  no  auntie.  They  could  hear 
the  cheering  of  the  spectators  inside  the  room. 

But  the  sound  fell  upon  unresponsive  ears,  for 
Frank  Wentworth  had  longed  for  this  hour. 

But  such  happiness  was  short-lived.  With 
many  a  promise  and  repetition  of  fidelity  the  lov- 
ers parted  to  meet  no  more  until  the  expiration  of 
many  weary  years. 

sis  :|:  4c  ^  4:  ^ 

Kuth's  aunt  died,  leaving  her  a  fortune  and 
making  the  girl  independent  of  the  world.  Her 
uncle,  the  friend  of  the  uncle  of  Frank,  also  was 
dead,  leaving  a  peculiar  will.  Euth  had  been 
notified  that  she  benefited  by  it  to  the  extent  of 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  while  one  Frank 
Wentworth  would  get  the  remainder  if  he  mar- 
ried her. 

Ruth  had  left  her  native  town.  It  had  been 
now  two  years  since  she  had  seen  Frank.  No 
word  reached  her,  but  somehow  she  felt  that  her 


28  A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 

boyish  lover  could  not  have  forgotten  her.  Each 
day  she  lived  there  reigned  supreme  the  thought 
that  she  would  see  him. 

But  as  years  rolled  away  she  became  used  to 
the  oppressive  silence  and  waited  with  a  patience 
natural  to  a  loving  woman. 

One  day,  before  leaving  the  large  house  facing 
the  white,  lonely  road  which  led  to  the  wood- 
land, Euth  received  a  letter  from  a  school  friend 
of  her  mother's. 

Would  she  come  to  New  York  and  pass  some 
few  months  with  their  family?  said  the  letter. 
She  should  go  to  the  seaside  and  as  a  young 
heiress  enjoy  the  privileges  of  good  society. 

So,  accordingly,  Euth  closed  the  house  and 
went  to  New  York. 

Mrs.  Mathers  had  been  in  boarding-school  at 
the  time  Euth's  mother  had  been  there.  They 
had  been  the  best  of  friends.  The  good  woman 
took  the  pretty  girl  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her, 
saying  that  from  then  on  she  should  be  her  own 
daughter.  It  was  such  a  change  from  the  quiet 
of  the  college  town,  the  bustle  and  commotion  of 
the  city,  that  at  first  Euth  could  scarcely  realize 


A  CHILD   OF  THE  SLUMS.  29^ 

it,  but  Mrs.  Mathers  forced  her  into  the  whirl 
of  a  winter  in  New  York,  which  soon  acclimated 
her. 

Mr.  Mathers  was  a  lawyer  of  high  degree,  with 
a  flourishing  practice  which  kept  him  in  the  city 
the  most  of  the  summer. 

Euth  was  surprised  at  first,  then  delighted  at 
the  manner  and  customs  which  reigned  between 
Mr.  Mathers  and  his  wife.  The  woman,  satisfied 
that  she  alone  was  the  sole  occupant  of  her  hus- 
band's heart,  tantalized  him  until  the  quarrels 
and  outbreaks  became  serious. 

One  afternoon  about  one  year  after  the  coming 
of  Ruth,  Mrs.  Mathers  told  the  girl  that  she 
thought  it  their  duty  to  advertise  for  the  miss- 
ing Frank  Wentworth — that  a  fortune  was 
awaiting  him,  while  a  certain  little  maid  would 
be  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  bliss  at  the  sight  of 
his  face.  Did  not  Ruth  think  that  it  was  heart- 
less to  sit  and  wait  for  a  man  who  might  be  in 
dire  distress? 

"Why,  Ruth,"  said  she,  "what  if  he  were  ill  and 
in  need  of  friends?  Now,  as  for  me,  I  don't 
know  the  young  gentleman,  but  I  do  appreciate 


30  A   CHILD  OF   THE  SLUMS. 

the  fact  that  he  is  the  cause  of  your  throwing 
away  so  many  good  offers." 

Euth's  face  colored  red.  Her  eyes  drooped  with 
a  guilty  expression.  How  many  times  since  that 
last  day,  when  she  had  stood  in  the  shadow  of 
the  large  college  hall,  had  she  rebuked  herself 
for  keeping  a  man  in  her  heart  who  evidently 
cared  nothing  for  her.  If  he  was  still  true  to 
his  vows,  would  not  Frank  Wentworth  have 
returned  long  ere  this?  Would  he  not  have  sent 
her  some  word  of  recognition  before  the  passing 
of  three  years?  With  these  thoughts  in  her  mind  j 
she  drew  herself  haughtily  together,  throwing  off 
the  desire  to  enter  heartily  into  the  scheme,  and 
said : 

"He  will  never  be  anything  to  me.  You  know 
the  terms  of  the  will  are  that  if  I  refuse  him,  he 
is  to  have  the  money,  or  if  he  finds  some  one  else 
to  love,  then  the  whole  of  it  comes  to  me.  I  do 
not  want  it,  neither  do  I  need  it,  so  I  have  ar- 
ranged it  that  when  he  does  put  in  an  appear- 
ance I  shall  refuse  him  before  he  gets  a  chance 
to  tell  me  that  he  preferred  some  one  to  me." 

The  tell-tale  tears  glistened  in  the  bright  eyes. 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  31 

How  she  loved  this  recreant  lover  who  was  stren- 
uously staying  away !  The  only  reason  Ruth 
eould  think  of  was  that  he  was  either  married 
or  dead.  She  was  judging  him  by  herself — she 
€Ould  not  stay  away  from  him  so  long  if  it  were 
possible  to  do  otherwise. 

Mrs.  Mathers  shook  her  head. 

^^I  think,  dear,  that  he  has  not  been  able  to 
carry  out  his  plans,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it. 
He  would  not  ask  you  to  join  him  in  poverty,  and, 
knowing  nothing  about  the  will,  he  keeps  in  his 
retreat.    I  am  of  the  opinion  that  he  is  living." 

^'Living  or  not,  he  is  not  for  me,"  said  Ruth. 
^^I  am  too  proud  to  force  myself  ui)on  any  man." 

"SOy  so,"  said  a  voice  at  the  back  of  them,  and 
both  ladies  faced  Mr.  Mathers,  with  his  red  face 
beaming  with  genuine  pleasure. 

"My  dear  love,"  he  whispered  in  his  wife's  ear, 
'^you  have  no  idea  how  delighted  I  am  to  find 
Tou  home.  I  look  upon  a  day  only  half  finished 
A\'hen  you  are  not  for  some  hours  a  part  of  it." 

"And  I,"  answered  back  a  sweet,  cooing  voice, 
"would  like  you  with  me  every  moment  of  the 
day." 


32  A  CHILD  OP   THE  SLUMS. 

Tlie  man  sank  into  a  chair  beside  his  wife.  He 
turned  his  eyes  upon  Ruth's  troubled  face.  Be- 
ing a  lawyer  he  realized  that  something  was 
brewing. 

^^In  difficulty,  little  girl?''  said  he.  ^*I  suppose 
it  is  that  obstinate  young  fellow  who  insists  upon 
keeping  himself  in  the  background.  I  would  no 
longer  worry  over  him." 

"Now,  Mr.  Mathers,"  cautioned  Mrs.  Mathers,, 
"don't  fill  that  child's  head  with  nonsense.  It  is 
her  duty  now  to  take  some  steps  toward  finding 
Frank  Wentworth.  He  may  be  a  perfectly  worthy 
young  man." 

"No  doubt,"  drawled  the  lawyer;  "he  is  prob- 
ably settled  in  some  office  and  married  to  some 
nice  girl." 

Ruth  uttered  a  little  cry.  It  sounded  so  cruel 
from  the  lips  of  another.  She  knew  now  that 
she  had  not  believed  that  Frank  had  forgotten 
her.    The  thought  was  unbearable. 

"Now,  Mr.  Mathers,"  expostulated  his  wife 
again,  "are  you  not  ashamed  of  yourself?  I  am 
of  you ;  you  should  be  more  delicate  than  to  men- 


A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS,  33; 

tion  such  a  thing.  Don't  mind  him,  Ruth,  he  is  a 
bear." 

Ruth  smiled  through  her  tears.  This  was  a 
challenge  for  a  serious  quarrel,  like  some  she  had 
often  heard. 

"Now,  wife,  not  quite  that  four-legged  ani- 
mal," good-naturedly  said  the  husband.  "If  I 
were  half  the  beasts  you  have  called  me,  I  should 
have  had  your  life  long  ago.  Again,  I  say  that 
Ruth  is  foolish  in  waiting  longer  for  a  missing 
man  who  knows  that  he  has  a  sweetheart  living 
somewhere." 

"Shut  up!"  snapped  Mrs.  Mathers.  "If  you 
cannot  say  w  hat  you  are  asked  to,  then  don't  talk 
at  all.    You  know  that  Ruth  loves  this  boy." 

The  lawyer  took  a  turn  about  the  room.  He 
blew  his  nose  vigorously,  which  was  always  a 
sign  that  he  was  ready  to  fight. 

"Madame,"  he  answered  severely,  "don't  give 
me  such  orders,  you  are  but  a  faulty  woman.  I 
demand  your  respect." 

Mrs.  Mathers  started  to  her  feet.  She  fell  to 
Avalking  behind  her  husband  and  tramped  in  his 
t  jotsteps  as  he  hurriedly  paced  the  room.    The 


34  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

good  woman  was  on  the  warpath.    She  bristled 
all  her  bright  feathers  like  a  setting  hen,  at  bein^ 

disturbed,  and  sputtered:  j 

"Lot  of  respect  I  have  for  you.    No  woman: 
could  have  a  moment's  peace  with  you.    I  wish  to  ; 
heaven  I  had  never  married  you/' 

Mathers  was  still  beating  his  way  over  the 
tliick  rug.    His  wife  was  close  at  his  heels. 

"I  wish  it  myself,"  gasped  the  man,  as  he  wiped 
great  beads  of  perspiration  from  his  brow.  "You 
are  enough  to  try  the  patience  of  a  saint.'' 

"Then,  good  Lord,  what  do  I  do  to  you?"  gasped 
Mrs.  Mathers.    "You  are  as  far  from  a  saint  as 
one  of  my  little  goldfish  is  from  the  North  Pole.  * 
Do  you  understand,  you  criminal  man,  I  say  you 
are  not  a  saint !"  k' 

still  the  tramping  kept  up.  Euth  was  smiling, 
^ven  though  the  color  had  left  her  face.  She  did 
not  know  how  very  much  she  loved  Frank  until 
the  subject  was  talked  over  again.  Many  days 
in  close  communion  with  her  soul  had  she 
.  secretly  whispered  that  no  other  man  should  call  \ 
her  wife.  Strange  that  at  this  moment,  when 
Sirs.  Mathers  was  striding  aft;er  the  big  fellow 


A   CHILI>  OF   THE   SLUMS.  35 

who  called  himself  her  husband,  and  who  really 
loved  the  little  spitfire,  she,  Ruth  Ferris, 
should  be  taken  back  to  that  day  when  she  had 
seen  the  spectral  scene  upon  the  white  road. 
Never  before  had  she  so  wanted  to  see  her  dar- 
ling. Somehow  she  felt  that  he  was  living  and 
loved  her  still.  As  this  thought  was  borne  in 
upon  her  mind  sne,  too,  arose  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  room,  keeping  step  with  the  red-faced 
husband  and  the  raging  wife. 

^^Ruth,''  said  Mrs.  Mathers,  dropping  into  a 
chair,  "what  are  you  doing?  Mocking  me  in  my 
awful  domestic  trouble?'^ 

"Heaven  forbid,"  answered  the  girl.  "I  was 
making  up  my  mind  to  take  your  advice  and 
make  a  systematic  search  for  Frank  Went- 
worth." 

"There,  do  you  hear  that,  my  own  love?" 
sweetly  asked  the  wife  of  her  husband.  "The 
girl  herself  admits  that  you  are  in  the  wrong. 
I  She  is  going  to  take  my  word  for  it  that  the  man 
is  living  and  loves  her  still.^' 

The  lawyer  sat  down,  smoothing  his  pallid 
face.     He  had  lost  the  look  of  turbulence,  and 


36  A   CHILD   OP  THE  SLUMS. 

lighted  a  cigar.  His  temper  was  again  at  its 
normal  coadition. 

"Then  I  am  willing  to  help  her,  my  darling," 
said  he.  "She  has  but  to  command  me,  and  the 
whole  office  staff  is  at  her  service.'^ 

Buth  arose  and  took  the  long,  white  fingers  in 
hers.  This  man  and  woman,  with  their  little  odd 
ways  of  having  strife,  were  the  salt  of  the  earth. 
She  loved  them  both.  The  sudden  resolution  to 
find  the  missing  heir  to  the  will,  and  at  least 
establish  peace  in  her  mind  as  to  his  welfare, 
caused  the  girl  to  breathe  hard.  She  did  not  want 
to  grow  hysterical,  even  before  her  friends. 

"I  am  going  to  accept  your  help,  Mr.  Mathers," 
said  she,  with  a  new  dignity,  "and  if  I  find  him 
well,  then  he  may  have  the  money,  but  if  he  if 
ill  and  needs  me " 

Here  Ruth  broke  off  and  a  sudden  rush  of  tears 
made  her  turn  and  flee  from  the  room.  After 
three  years  the  old  desires,  the  old  passion  surged 
again  in  the  girlish  heart.  How  much  dearer 
the  absent  man  had  constantly  grown  since  the 
days  she  first  met  him  in  the  woodland.  Mrs. 
Mathers  looked  reprovingly  at  her  husband.    He 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  37 

<drew  his  chair  close  to  hers  and  placed  a  large 
arm  about  the  still  beautiful  waist.  "Sweetheart, 
I  find  every  woman  insipid  compared  to  you.  Kiss 
me,  my  dear ;  we  may  have  our  quarrels,  but  you 
are  the  girl  for  me.'' 

Could  Euth  have  seen  these  two  people,  who 
had  spent  ten  years  in  blissful,  happy  life,  inter- 
spersed with  strife  and  daily  bickerings,  she 
would  have  laughed  in  spite  of  the  warm  tears 
she  was  shedding  into  a  small  bit  of  lace. 

Going  to  her  dressing-table  she  took  a  key 
from  a  gold  watch  chain  about  her  neck.  Un- 
locking a  drawer  in  a  box  on  the  table  she  lifted 
out  a  small  picture  and  a  faded  rose. 

She  allowed  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
to  drop  upon  the  handsome  boyish  face.  She 
turned  it  about  and  looked  on  the  back. 

"To  my  sweetheart,  Ruth,  from  Prank,"  was 
written  there. 

The  girl  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Frank,  Frank,"  whispered  she,  pressing  the 
pictured  face  close  to  her  lips.  "Where  in  all  the 
world  are  you,  and  am  I  ever  going  to  see  you 
again?" 


gg  ▲  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

At  the  same  time  that  Ruth  had  come  to  ISevr 
York  another  girl  in  different  circumstances 
came  also. 

Life  had  not  dealt  kindly  with  Hilda  Rhodes. 
Her  days  since  the  passing  of  childhood  had  been 
spent  in  bitter  repining  for  a  deed  which  she  had 
committed.  She  could  remember  how  many 
times  her  mother  had  warned  her  that  the  college 
boys  at  Harvard  would  cause  her  life-long  dis- 
tress. But  girl-like,  Hilda  would  not  listen.  She 
went  her  own  independent  way  until  one  (Jay  she 
awoke  to  find  herself  in  the  world  alone,  with  a 
wee  babe  dependent  upon  her.  The  father  of  her 
child  she  loved  with  all  the  passionate  ardor  of 
young  womanhood  and  the  coming  of  the  baby 
had  but  strengthened  it.  She  knew  that  she  was 
the  student's  wife;  that  he  loved  her,  and  that 
it  was  impossible  for  them  to  acknowledge  to 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  39 

the  world  that  they  were  man  and  wife.  The 
acquaintance  had  commenced  with  the  school- 
days of  the  boy.  In  his  first  year  in  college  he 
had  taken  the  girl  into  his  heart.  Soon  trouble 
commenced  and  Kichard  Gerson  informed  Hilda 
that  she  must  go  away  from  the  town,  for  the 
stigma  of  her  condition  would  fall  upon  him.  So 
she  wandered  away,  leaving  but  a  note  of  fare- 
well to  the  distracted  mother,  saying  that  some 
time  she  would  return  to  their  home  and  confess^ 
her  sins,  but  until  then  would  her  precious 
mother  never  cease  to  pray  for  her  daughter? 

The  girl  quietly  left  the  city  and  went  to  Buf- 
falo, where  her  child  was  born  in  a  hospital  for 
women. 

Taking  the  babe  during  her  convalescence  she 
started  for  New  York. 

The  train  which  carried  her  was  crowded  with 
passengers,  and  there  was  but  little  room  for  the 
transients  who  bundled  themselves  among  the 
sleepy  carload  of  people  at  every  station. 

Hilda  found  herself  occupying  a  seat  with  a 
girl  about  her  own  age.  She  noted  that  the  face 
Ys  as  pale,  while  the  lips  had  a  drawn,  pained 


40  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

expression  about  them.  Hilda  mentally  con- 
ceived an  idea  of  finding  out  her  heart  story. 

^^The  night  is  dark/'  said  she,  by  way  of  open- 
ing conversation,  and  peering  out  of  the  window. 
^'There  seems  not  to  be  one  star." 

The  other  leaned  far  over  and  looked  into  the 
lieavens.  Her  dark  face  gave  back  no  sign  to  the 
expression  of  sympathy  which  Hilda  bestowed 
upon  her. 

"I  don't  care  how  dark  the  night  is,''  she  an- 
swered, harshly.  "What  does  heaven  do  for  such 
women  as  we  are?" 

The  two  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  So  black 
was  the  piercing  glance  which  fell  upon  Hilda 
and  her  precious  bundle  that  a  vivid  color 
reached  even  to  her  ear-tips. 

She  shuddered  when  she  thought  of  the  suffer- 
ing which  the  girl  must  have  endured  during  the 
past  few  weeks. 

"I  do  not  know  that  heaven  is  to  blame  for  our 
misfortunes,"  said  she,  hugging  her  baby  closer 
to  her  breast.  "You  know  that  every  cloud  has 
its  silver  lining." 

The  stranger  shook  her  head,  slowly. 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  4f 

^*This  is  mine/'  went  on  Hilda;  "my  baby  has 
been  a  silver  lining  to  my  dark  cloud.'' 

"So  was  mine  until  Heaven  chose  to  take  it 
away  from  me." 

The  tones  were  filled  with  despair,  while  the 
dark  eyes  again  sought  the  cloudy  sky.  Hilda 
noticed  that  the  woman  drew  aside  the  blanket 
that  covered  her  baby  and  looked  intently  at  the 
sweet,  sleeping  face. 

"Is  it  a  boy?"  asked  she,  after  a  spell  of  silence. 

"Yes,"  answered  Hilda,  "and  he  weighed  ten 
pounds  when  he  was  born.  He  is  very  beautiful, 
is  my  baby." 

"Where  is  his  father?" 

The  question,  asked  with  such  sarcasm  in  the 
tones,  at  first  shocked  Hilda.  Her  baby  was  le- 
gally born,  even  if  it  had  been  secretly.  The 
father  was  to  blame  for  that. 

"His  father  is  still  in  college,"  said  she,  simply. 

"So  is  the  father  of  my  dead  baby.  Mine  was 
a  girl." 

There  was  such  bitterness  in  the  tones  and  the 
sparkling  eyes  were  heavy  with  tears  Hilda  could 


;^2  A   CHILD  Off  THE  SLUMS. 

not  refrain  from  lifting  the  sleeping  child  and 
holding  It  out  toward  the  stranger. 

"Won't  you  hold  my  baby,  he  is  so  comfort- 
ing?'' 

Eagerly,  hungrily,  the  child  was  snatched  to 
the  lonely  breast.  The  shawl  revealed  the  pink 
cheeks  upon  which  hot  kisses  were  impressed. 
The  child  stirred  in  its  sleep,  but  with  a  gentle 
crooning  was  hushed  again  into  forgetfulness. 
Hilda  said  not  a  word.  She  did  not  stop  the  soft 
singing  hum  nor  did  she  ask  that  her  child  be 
laid  again  in  her  own  arms.  Somehow  she  felt 
that  the  girl  was  being  comforted  by  the  weight 
of  the  small  body,  and  instinctively  her  mind 
went  back  to  that  time  when  she  lay  sick  in  the 
hospital,  and  all  the  world  looked  so  dreary  anrl 
dark.  How  she  had  clung  to  the  tiny  child  wiia 
had  come  into  her  life  so  inopportunely ! 

Now  she  felt  satisfied  and  thankful  tliat  be, 
her  little  Dicky,  was  hers.  She  had  called  him 
Dick  because  his  father  had  asked  her  to.  She 
looked  the  girl  over  as  she  rocked  back  and  forth 
w  ith  the  sleeping  baby.  Only  once  did  Hilda  bend 


A  CHILD   OP  THE  SLUMS.  4^ 

over  and  passionately  kiss  the  little  face,  mur- 
muring love  words  into  the  unheeding  ear. 

Long  days  and  years  after  she  looked  upon  that 
holy  caress  as  the  one  thing  to  be  treasured  and 
remembered. 

Still  the  crooning  continued.  Still  the  child 
slept  and  knew  nothing.  And  still  Hilda,  grow- 
ing now  drowsy,  listened  to  the  supplicating^ 
groaning  tones  of  the  tearful  voice  as  they  came 
to  her  through  a  mist  of  almost  unconscious- 
ness. 

Hilda  had  fallen  asleep.  Her  fair  face  rested 
against  the  crimson  cushion  of  the  seat  while  one 
white  hand  had  entangled  itself  in  the  masses 
of  golden  hair  which  covered  the  shapely  head. 
The  blue  eyes  were  draped  with  heavy  lashes  and 
the  sleeper  smiled  in  her  sleep  as  faintly  there 
came  to  her  mind  the  sound  of  the  humming. 

The  watcher  with  eager  eyes  bent  over  the  tired 
girl.  She  touched  her  arm  gently,  but  no  re- 
sponse. The  weary  muscles,  weak  from  the  mul- 
titude of  duties  which  had  fallen  upon  the  young 
mother  since  the  coming  of  her  child,  gave  back 
110  answering  throb.    The  young  woman  holding 


44  A  CHILD   OP  THE  SLUMS. 

the  baby  realized  this.  She  had  seldom  seen  such 
glowing  hair,  seldom  looked  into  such  a  beautiful 
face.  Why  should  she  have  all  and  herself  Both- 
ing? 

Again  she  lifted  her  hand  and  touched  the 
white  arm,  and  again  received  no  response. 

She  lifted  the  child  high  in  her  arms  and 
looked  into  the  tiny  face.  The  sam^  even  eon- 
tour,  the  little  rings  of  golden  hair  which  curled 
around  the  even  forehead,  spoke  a  striking  like- 
ness to  its  mother.  The  babe  opened  its  eyes  and 
took  in  a  deep  breath,  doubling  its  little  fists 
with  the  healthy  languor  of  babyhood.  The  large 
eyes  blinked  once,  twice,  and  then  flew  wide  open. 
The  anxious  woman  saw  that,  unlike  the  mother, 
the  child's  eyes  were  of  midnight  darkness. 

Then  the  lids  closed  again  and  the  child  slept 
on.  Weary  little  waif  upon  the  world,  who  knew 
not  wliat  fate  had  in  store  for  it ! 

Hilda  only  nestled  closer  into  her  w^hite  arm 
as  she  felt  the  woman  move  in  the  seat.  The  pon- 
derous engine  shrieked  out  its  plan  to  lessen  its 
speed.  The  long  rings  of  white  steam  curling 
away    into    the    dark    sky    seemed    to    only 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  45. 

determine  the  woman  upon  some  plan  of 
action  which  seemed  perfectly  feasible  and 
just  to  her.  She  watched  the  little  sleeping 
mother  until  the  car  had  come  to  a  dead  stop  and 
then,  lifting  the  child  in  her  arms,  she  walked 
out  of  the  door  and  stepped  into  the  night.  There 
was  not  one  among  the  drowsy  passengers  who 
had  seen  the  last  act  of  the  drama  which  had 
been  enacted  before  them,  nor  had  they  seen  the 
curtain  fall  upon  the  closing  act  which  meant 
suffering  for  the  golden-haired  girl  who  was 
resting  upon  the  deep  red  of  the  plush  under  her 
arm.  For  almost  an  hour  Hilda  slept.  She  seemed 
to  be,  in  her  weariness,  utterly  oblivious  of  the 
absence  of  her  child. 

A  sudden  lurch  of  the  train  and  she  was  awake. 

She  looked  about  hastily,  with  fear-laden  eyes. 
Where  were  the  stranger  and  the  child?  Where 
was  her  baby,  the  little  golden-haired  child  of  her 
heart  who  had  become  the  better  part  of  her  life? 

Her  startled  exclamation  brought  several  men 
to  their  feet. 

"Where  is  the  woman  who  was  with  me?"  she 


46  A  CHILD  OP  THE3  SLUMS. 

demanded  of  one  individual  who  sat  rubbing  his 
eyes  with  concern  at  her  grief. 

"How  do  I  know?"  he  grumbled.  *^I've  been 
trying  to  take  care  of  one  woman  all  my  life, 
and  found  it  the  hardest  job  I  ever  tackled.  Don't 
want  no  more,  thank  you,"  and  he  settled  back 
and  again  closed  his  eyes  as  if  to  sleep. 

Hilda  walked  to  the  end  of  the  car.  She  could 
not  believe  that  the  stranger  had  taken  the  child 
and  left  the  train.  It  was  not  until  she  had  sat- 
isfied herself  of  the  time  she  had  spent  in  sleep, 
and  that  the  train  had  stopped  twice  during  that 
period,  that  she  made  up  her  mind  that  her  boy 
had  been  stolen.  After  her  first  outburst  of  grief 
she  settled  her  head  in  the  comer  and  wept  be- 
hind the  little  shawl  which  had  adorned  her 
Dicky's  head.  Several  kind-hearted  people  tried 
to  comfort  her,  but  she  saw  no  peace  in  the  wild 
schemes  which  they  suggested.  The  conductor 
was  the  first  to  give  her  real  satisfaction.  Had 
the  woman  who  had  stolen  the  child  told  her 
that  she  was  going  to  New  York?  Yes?  Well, 
then,  the  thing  was  to  get  oflf  at  the  next  station 
iind  board  the  fast  express  train  for  the  city  and 


A   CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  47 

there  face  the  woman  with  her  cherished  treas- 
ure, 

Hilda  took  this  as  the  only  sensible  thing  to  do, 
and  she  left  in  the  night  and  the  shadows  swal- 
lowed her  up. 

Nearly  six  years  later  Hilda  Rhodes  was  on 
her  way  to  the  city  again.  Fruitless  had  been 
the  search  for  the  little  boy  whom  she  had  grown 
to  love  in  the  few  short  weeks  he  had  been  in 
her  life.  Every  daj^  she  prayed  that  some  light 
be  thrown  upon  the  mystery,  that  she  might  know 
if  the  boy  were  living  and  happy;  it  would  be 
finch,  a  comfort  to  her. 

She  was  still  beautiful,  ripened  into  lovely 
"t\  omanhood,  to  which  the  charm  of  girlhood 
ould  not  compare.  Every  one  admiring  the 
teady-eyed  girl  knew  that  her  life  had  a  history 
which  would  not  bear  unfolding,  else  why  the 
beautiful,  drooping  mouth,  or  the  unfathomable 
eyes  which  caused  the  watcher  to  turn  away  with 
a  shudder? 

Just  at  this  time  our  heroine  was  on  her  way 
to  New  York.    As  her  romance  had  ended  in  her 


48  A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS. 

lover  going  away,  so  Hilda  Khodes'  happiness 
saw  its  end  in  the  disappearance  of  her  child. 

Her  husband,  she  knew,  was  dead,  for  had  sl^^e 
not  seen  his  name  among  the  list  of  passengers 
upon  a  fated  vessel  from  which  not  one  had  been 
saved?  Many  were  the  tears  shed  for  the  macv 
but  the  greatest  longing  was  for  the  little  child 
that  she  had  lost  from  her  clutching  fingers  so 
many  years  ago.  Hilda  could  remember  hearing 
it  once  said  that  a  mother  could  forget  the  ex- 
istence of  the  father  of  her  child  but  not  the  lit- 
tle babe  itself.  And  how  vividly  did  it  flash  over 
her  mind  as  she  passed  through  the  beautiful 
scenery  of  New  York  State,  that  terrible  night 
when  she  had  awakened  to  find  her  child  gone. 

And  out  of  all  the  suffering  she  had  arisen 
a  beautiful,  glorious  woman,  resplendent  in  her 
loveliness  as  a  rose  blooming  in  a  garden.  Hilda 
knew  not  her  power.  She  only  knew  that  life 
held  no  charm  for  her  as  far  as  loved  ones  were 
concerned.  Had  she  not  lost  her  husband,  un- 
loving though  he  were?  And  the  little  child  had 
gone  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come.  Had  she  not 
gone  home  to  her  college  town  and  buried  the 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  49 

dear,  white-haired  mother  who  had  not  for  years 
been  so  peaceful  in  expression  as  she  was  now 
in  the  long,  narrow  box  which  would  accompany 
her  to  her  rest? 

Hilda  was  thinking  of  these  things  when  the 
train  stopped  and  she  noted  a  man  of  such  great 
height  enter  the  car  that  he  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  every  passenger.  With  a  start  Hilda  in- 
wardly remarked  that  it  was  the  same  station 
where,  six  years  before,  she  had  gone  into  the 
night,  starting  upon  a  vain  search  for  her  lost 
child. 

The  man  took  a  seat  directly  opposite  her, 
and  opening  his  paper  began  to  read,  and  Hilda 
forgot  that  an  exceedingly  handsome  fellow  was 
seated  near  her  and  fell  once  more  into  a  reminis- 
cent mood.  She  did  not  stay  there  long,  however, 
for  turning,  she  saw  a  pair  of  keen  grey  eyes  look- 
ing into  hers. 

She  turned  uneasily  in  her  seat,  dismayed  at 
the  eager  expression  of  admiration  upon  the 
strong  face. 

,  Over  and  over  again  her  eyes  were  drawn  to  his 
until,  with  a  smile,  he  offered  her  a  newspaper. 


so  A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 

She  took  it,  while  a  flood  of  color  swept  over 
her  face.  The  magnetic  smile  made  her  pulse 
tingle  and  involuntarily  she  moved  over  in  her 
s^at,  seemingly  inviting  him  to  her  side.  She  did 
not  need  to  make  a  second  invitation.  He  dropped 
into  the  chair  with  an  exclamation  of  thankful- 
ness. 

"I  could  not  get  you  to  look  at  me,'^  he  said  at 

last,  folding  up  the  paper  which  had  been  the 

innocent  cause  of  their  acquaintance.     "What 

were  you  thinking  of  so  earnestly  as  you  looked 

out  of  the  window?  Some  sweetheart,  I'll  wager.'^ 

The  bantering  tone  and  the  winsome  smile  re- 
stored Hilda  to  her  own  bright  self.  But  she 
answered  gravely,  with  a  slight  pucker  playing 
about  the  red  lips,  that  she  had  been  thinking 
of  the  past. 

"It's  a  bad  thing  to  do,"  began  the  stranger; 
^^I  think  it  well  for  every  man  and  woman  to 
bury  their  past,  especially  if  it  is  disagreeable. 
!Now,  for  my  part,  I  do  not  r^ret  anything  "I 
have  ever  done,  and  don't  intend  to,  either." 

Hilda  noted  the  broad  forehead  ending  at  the 
almost  shaggy  eyebrows,  the  straight  look  of 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  5U 

truthfulness  which  shone  from  the  grey  eyes,  and 
lastly,  the  kindly,  smiling  mouth,  with  the  full, 
red,  passionate  lips.  She  said  to  herself  that  sucli 
a  man  could  not  do  a  mean  thing  in  the  world, 
^  no  matter  how  hard  he  might  try,  for  his  nature 
would  not  allow  it. 

They  took  up  the  commonplace  things  of  the 
(lay.  Hilda  chattered  on  about  her  hopes  and 
ambitions.  She  was  going  to  New  York  to  get 
work,  to  see  what  kind  of  a  future  she  could 
make  for  herself. 

"I  live  in  New  York  in  winter,''  replied  the 
man,  "and  maybe  there  will  be  many  times  you 
will  want  a  friend.  If  so,  there  is  my  card,  and  I 
want  you  to  send  me  your  address  as  soon  as  you 
are  located  and  I  may  have  some  news  for  you.'' 

Hilda  noticed  that  he  was  examining  her  hand. 
Only  one  small  ring  sparkled  upon  her  flnger.  In 
a  little  box  at  the  bottom  of  her  trunk  there 
rested  the  small  wedding  ring,  the  little  band 
of  gold  that  bound  her  to  the  Harvard  College 
4  student  and  made  it  possible  for  her  to  kiss  the 
lost  child's  lips  when  it  had  been  born  witk 
thankfulness. 


52  A   CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 

Through  the  long  journey  toward  the  great 
metropolis  the  grey  eyes  ever  studied  the  blue. 
The  handsome  dark  head  rested  against  the  crim- 
son  of  the  cushion  in  close  proximity  to  the 
golden. 

The  woman  and  man  were  both  sorry  that  the 
end  af  their  journey  had  arrived.  Hilda  gath- 
ered up  her  bundles  while  the  strong  fingers  of 
the  man  grasped  her  dress-suit  case. 

She  followed  him  out  with  a  sense  of  security 
and  they  parted  at  the  ferry,  his  way  lying  in  a 
different  direction  from  hers. 

On  her  trip  across  the  North  River  she  took  out 
the  card  and  read: 

"Thomas  G.  Brittle,  48  Wall  Street.'^ 

For  several  moments  she  studied  the  card  and 
then,  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction,  stored  it  away 
in  her  little  handbag. 

This  will  be  remembered  as  the  day  that  Ruth 
Ferris  was  being  admitted  into  the  family  of  the 
Mathers. 

Hilda  Rhodes,  as  she  called  herself  still,  for 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  53 

the  girl  had  never  given  herself  the  luxury  of 
passing  under  her  husband's  name,  found  a  small 
room  whert  she  could  live  within  her  means  and 
he  happy.  The  sound  of  so  much  life  inspired  her 
with  the  hope  that  in  all  the  great  city  there  must 
be  a  place  for  her,  and  she  would  find  it  if  it 
pleased  Heaven  to  aid  her. 

The  days  passed  into  weeks  and  aln^ost  a 
month,  and  still  Hilda  was  holding  the  wolf  from 
her  door  by  close  economy.  Not  one  penny  would 
she  spend  until  the  time  came  that  she  had  hon- 
estly earned  money  enough  to  live  upon. 

One  afternoon  as  the  winter  wind  was  blowing 
up  Broadway,  and  the  river  was  filled  with  toot- 
ing ferryboats,  Hilda  was  sitting  quietly  in  her 
room.  She  was  thankful  for  the  warm  little  spot 
she  called  home,  where  even  the  landlady  smiled 
into  her  face  and  bade  her  a  good-morning  or  a 
good-night  as  the  case  might  be.  Hilda  noticed 
that  every  one  was  so  very  good  to  her  always. 

A  knock  at  the  door  brought  her  to  her  feet. 
A  card  was  handed  in  upon  which  was  written 
the  name  "Thomas  Brittle.'' 

Hilda  hurriedly  made  her  toilet,  brushing  back 


^4  ^  CHILD   OF   THE   SLXJUS, 

the  strayJng  golden  curls,  which  were  one  of  her 
chief  charms. 

A  broad  back  was  turned  toward  her  as  she 
entered  the  parlor.  The  man  was  looking 
thoughtfully  out  of  the  window.  How  well  Hilda 
remembered  the  big,  dark  head,  and  it  was  witli  a 
little  thrill  that  she  glided  across  the  room  and 
touched  him  upon  the  arm. 

^^It  was  so  kind  of  you  to  come,'^  said  she.  ^^I 
Yvondered  if  you  had  received  my  note." 

The  visitor  whirled  about  and  took  the  white 
hands  in  his.  Hilda  thought  he  was  going  to 
crush  them  in  his  great  grasp,  but  somehow  she 
liked  the  strength  that  seemed  to  be  sparkling 
from  his  large  body. 

"Indeed,  little  woman,"  said  he,  looking  deep 
into  her  eyes  with  a  gleam  of  grey  which  Hilda 
never  would  forget,  "I  came  because  I  could  not 
help  it;  you  simply  drew  me  to  you." 

Hilda  gave  a  happy  laugh.  She  urged  him  to 
he  seated,  but  he  declined,  and  with  bowed  head 
and  reverent  manner  he  told  her  that  he  loved 
her,  and  that  he  had  come  expressly  to  ask  her  to 
1)0  his  wife. 


A  CHILD  OP   THE   SLUMS.  55 

The  girl  was  so  startled  that  for  a  long  time 
she  clasped  and  unclasped  her  fingers.  Here  wa^ 
the  place  in  the  big  city  for  her — the  wife  of 
a  man  for  whom  she  could  work  and  who  would 
love  her  in  return. 

Hilda  had  forgotten  the  dead  mother,  the 
drowned  husband,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  jeav^^ 
the  little  lost  child  faded  from  her  memory.  She 
lived  in  a  beautiful  present,  filled  with  love  and 
happiness.  The  big  man  lifted  the  rosy  face  to 
his  and  read  the  answer  in  the  tear-dimmed,  blue 
eyes  which  sent  the  blood  in  great  leaps  through 
his  heart 


56  A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Only  the  roaring  of  the  wind  amid  the  rattling 
of  the  ears  and  carriages  could  be  heard  by  the 
man  and  woman  as  they  sat  in  the  small  parlor 
of  the  boarding-house.  They  were  drinking  in 
the  honey  sweet  which  comes  to  every  loving 
heart  when  the  fountain  is  first  opened. 

"I  have  told  you  nothing  about  myself/'  pres- 
ently spoke  up  the  man,  and  it  was  this  speech 
that  brought  back  to  the  mind  of  the  woman  the 
time  upon  the  train  when  she  had  awaken^  to 
find  the  little  child  gone  into  the  shadows  of  the 
night. 

She  suddenly  dropped  the  hands  which  had  so 
tightly  held  hers  and  she  had  pressed  in  return. 

"And  I  have  told  you  nothing  of  myself,"  reit- 
erated she,  with  a  struggle  to  stand  upon  her 
feet. 

"Don't  leave  me,"  entreated  the  rich  voice. 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  57 

•^^You  can  tell  it  here,  and  if  there  is  much,  re- 
member, my  heart  is  large  and  I  can  forgive  much 
in  one  I  love." 

Without  a  warning  the  floodgate  of  tears  was 
swept  away  and  Hilda  bowed  her  golden  head  on 
the  big  warm  hands  and  wept.  Wept  for  the  man 
lost  at  sea,  for  the  dead  mother  in  the  cemetery 
at  Cypress  Hills,  and  lastly,  with  great  sobs,  for 
the  tiny  babe  that  had  rested  for  so  few  weeks 
upon  her  breast.  This  she  would  have  to  tell. 
Of  course,  he  would  want  to  know.  She  listened 
quietly  as  he  told  her  of  his  family.  How  for 
years  he  had  lived  with  an  old  mother  and  had 
been  satisfied  that  it  should  be  so.  But  no  more 
could  he  look  upon  life  in  the  same  old  easy 
manner.  He  wanted  a  wife,  and  she  must  be 
Hilda.  Not  since  that  trip  down  the  State  had 
he  been  able  to  get  the  golden  glint  of  her  hair 
or  the  gleam  of  the  blue  eyes  from  his  mind. 

"I  have  told  you  all,"  said  he.  "I  come  with 
clean  hands  into  your  life  and  offer  you  all  that 
I  have." 

Hilda  wished,  with  a  sickening  heart,  that  she 


Sg  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

had  the  same  kind  of  a  story  to  tell,  and  she 
tremblingly  began. 

Back  at  the  beginning,  when  she  was  but  six- 
teen, how  she  had  met  the  student  who  had  won 
the  love  of  the  young  girlhood.  All  about  the 
secret  marriage  and  the  sudden  leaving  of  her 
home. 

'^And  there  was  a — a '^ 

Here  the  man  hesitated. 

Hilda  saw  a  look  of  pain  sweep  into  his  eyes^ 
but  he  only  tightened  the  clasp  upon  the  white 
hands. 

^^Yes,  a  little  child,"  she  said,  simply,  with  a 
very  white  face. 

"And  it  is  dead?" 

*'I  do  not  know."  Hilda's  answer  brought  no 
further  question,  and  the  girl  tremblingly  told 
the  story  of  the  night  ride  and  the  loss  of  the 
baby. 

"Then  you  do  not  know  whether  it  is  living  or 
not?" 

How  tender  were  the  tones  of  the  man  as  he 
said  this !   And  again  Hilda  was  weeping  wildly, 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.  59 

labile  the  wind  kept  up  its  mournful  dirge  upon 
the  outside. 

"Would  to  Heaven  I  knew/'  cried  she.  "I  havQ 
searched  for  a  golden-haired  boy  for  years,  and  I 
know  not  where  to  look.  I  fear  I  shall  never  hear 
of  my  little  baby  again.'' 

The  cry  of  the  mother  for  her  child  filled 
Brittle's  eyes  with  tears.  The  only  gruesome 
regret  in  it  all  was  that  he  had  not  known  her 
years  before  and  he  instead  of  that  dead  student, 
now  lying  under  the  water,  had  been  the  father 
of  her  child.  The  blood  tingled  through  his  veins 
at  the  thought.  She  was  so  beautiful,  and  the 
helpless  cry  for  her  lost  one  made  the  heartache 
worse.  How  much  dearer  she  had  grown  slru  e 
the  painful  recital! 

There  was  no  dishonor  upon  the  dear,  bright 
head.  He  would  lift  her  magnanimously  out  of 
her  life  of  poverty  and  draw  the  little  fragile, 
golden-haired  flower  into  the  garden  of  hij% 
heart  to  bloom  for  him  alone.  He  felt  that  the 
expression  which  had  first  drawn  him  toward 
her  had  been  sent  there  through  the  loss  of  the 


<)0  A  CHILD  OP  THE   SLUMS. 

child — a  heart-hungry  look  that  leapt  into  life 
every  time  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

Brittle  thanked  God  that  he  had  found  her 
as  uncontaminated  by  the  world's  contact  as  she 
was. 

He  would  take  her  to  the  dear  old  mother,  and 
the  past  of  Hilda  Rhodes  would  be  lost  in  the  fu- 
ture of  Hilda  Brittle. 

♦         *♦♦♦♦♦ 

Tom  Brittle,  as  those  who  knew  him  intimately 
called  him,  felt  that  the  whole  universe  had  been 
made  for  him,  that  his  life  so  far  had  not  been 
lived  in  vain,  for  did  he  not  possess  the  merriest- 
hearted  little  wife  in  all  the  world?  And  how  the 
yellow-headed  sprite  made  the  home-rooms  ring 
with  laughter !  Even  his  mother,  with  her  puri- 
tanical notions,  could  but  smile  at  the  brilliancy 
of  her  son's  wife  or  listen  with  avidity  to  the 
stories  which  rippled  from  her  lips  as  brook 
water  ripples  in  its  bed  toward  the  sea. 

Tom  Brittle  lived  up  the  State  upon  a  mag- 
nificent farm  during  the  summer,  but  the  winter 
months  found  him  in  New  York  among  congenial 
companions. 


A   CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  .  61 

His  lawyer,  Mr.  Mathers,  of  the  firm  of  Math- 
ers and  Company,  proved  of  great  service  to  the 
rich  man  when  in  the  city. 

One  afternoon  he  was  speaking  of  his  wife  in 
the  presence  of  the  lawyer.  Mathers  turned  and 
looked  at  him. 

^^I  didn't  know  that  you  had  a  wife,  Tom." 

"Indeed  I  have,  and  the  sweetest  woman  in  the 
world." 

"With  the  exception  of  mine,"  grunted  tne 
lawyer  under  his  breath,  as  he  thought  of  the 
woman  who  had  made  his  Heaven  and  placed  him 
in  equally  low  depths  of  perdition.  But  Mathers 
had  long  ago  grown  to  believe  that  the  paradise 
he  enjoyed  when  he  and  his  wife  were  happy  over- 
shadowed the  pangs  of  misery  which  every  day  of 
his  life  he  felt  when  in  the  dear  woman's  com- 
pany. 

"Why  don't  you  bring  your  treasure  some  day 
to  dine  with  us?  I  can  show  a  woman  surpassed 
by  none  in  New  York." 

Lawyer  Mathers  drew  himself  up  proudly  as 
he  said  this. 

Brittle  wondered  if  the  other's  wife  had  the 


62  A  CHILD  OP  THE   SLUMS. 

same  dppth  to  her  eyes  and  golden  gleam  to  ber 
hair,  and  with  a  profuse  color  still  wondered 
if  Mathers'  wife  evinced  half  the  emotion  and 
passion  for  him  that  Hilda  had  for  her  husband. 
Was  a  husband  ever  so  fortunate  in  the  world  a& 
he?  A  wife  untaught  by  the  awfulness  of  the 
world's  sin,  and  yet  softened  and  mellowed  by 
womanly  suffering. 

^'Any  time  you  like,  old  fellow,"  said  he,  as  he 
parted  from  Mr.  Mathers.  ^^Ask  your  wife  to 
name  the  day  and  we  will  come,  and  prepare 
yourself  to  meet  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the 
world — to  me.^' 

Both  men  laughed  happily  as  he  put  the  finv 
ishing  touch  to  his  assurance,  for  each  in  his 
heart  knew  that  the  woman  who  reigned  there 
queen  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the 
world — to  him. 

So  it  happened  that  in  a  few  days  Ruth  and 

Mrs.  Mathers  were  waiting  with  eagerness  to 

meet  the  millionaire's  wife,  who,  according  to 

her  husband's  view,  was  the  loveliest  woman  2n 

,rall  the  world. 

Ruth   had   begun   her   search   for   the   miss- 


A   CHILD  OF  THS  SLUMS.  6S 

ing  man.  It  had  only  been  a  short  time  since 
Mathers  had  consented  to  take  up  the  case.  Her 
thoughts  TV  ere  full  of  plans  to  locate  Frank,  when 
the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Mathers  slipped  in 
arrayed  in  all  the  glory  of  her  very  best.  "There/' 
said  she,  plumping  herself  down  upon  the  divan, 
^^I  think  Bella  has  done  her  prettiest  with  this 
gown.  Now,  would  you  not  think  it  brand  new? 
X  tell  you,  there  is  nothing  like  a  French  maid — 
^  they  save  their  salary  in  refurbishing." 

Ruth  praised  the  beautiful  form,  giving  full 

stice  to  the  maid's  handiwork. 

'I  am  simply  dying  with  curiosity  to  see  that 

man  coming  here  to-night.  Hubby  says  her 
lui>il)and  is  one  of  his  wealthiest  clients.  I  am 
going  to  be  extra  nice  to  him.'' 

*^And  probably  make  the  golden-haired  wife 
jealous,''  cautioned  Euth. 

"No  danger  of  that,"  answered  Mrs.  Mathers, 
"for  hubby  says  that  he  is  hers  heart  and  soul." 

The  two  women  walked  downstairs  together 
rand  were  soon  being  presented  to  a  strikingly 
/handsome  man,  upon  whose  arm  a  golden-haired 
woman  was  leaning. 


64  A   CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

Mr.  Mathers  introduced  his  wife  and  Rutli. 
Both  members  of  the  household  wondered  not  st 
the  pride  of  the  rich  man  over  the  wife  he  had 
so  praised. 

The  dinner  was  spent  in  pretty  pleasantries 
from  the  gentlemen  to  the  ladies,  each  one  trying 
to  outdo  the  other  in  the  compliments  which  are 
a  part  of  woman's  nature  to  love. 

Ruth,  after  the  repast  was  finished,  took  the 
wife  of  Thomas  Brittle  to  her  room  and  with 
girlish  glee  the  maiden  listened  to  the  wife's 
story  of  happiness. 

This  dinner  party  established  a  friendship  be* 
tween  Ruth  and  Hilda  which  would  endure  many 
things.  Especially  were  the  two  drawn  together 
when  they  learned  that  the  same  town  had  given 
them  birth,  and  that  in  the  same  cemetery  their 
mothers  and  fathers  were  resting.  Scarcely  a 
day  but  that  the  two  did  not  see  each  other.  One 
day  while  Ruth  was  visiting  her  friend,  and  the 
springtime  was  following  close  upon  the  winter, 
the  two  women  were  in  Mrs.  Brittle's  drawing- 
room.  The  weather  had  not  so  changed  but  that 
a  fire  was  needed  and  each  woman  was  glad  of 


A  CHILD   OP  THfi  SLUMS.  65 

the  warmth  from  the  grate-fire.  Only  the  night 
before  Hilda  had  talked  over  the  matter  with  her 
husband  of  her  little  lost  boy,  who  would  now 
be  nearly  seven  were  he  living.  Brittle  had  ex- 
iiausted  all  the  detective  service  in  the  city  trying 
to  locate  the  child,  and  the  little  mother  felt  that 
her  immense  wealth  was  of  no  consequence  if  her 
baby  boy  could  not  be  found.  But  Hilda  Brittle 
had  never  been  so  happy  in  her  life  before  a» 
since  she  had  lived  with  her  noble  husband,  but 
there  was  ever  gnawing  at  her  heart  the  love  of 
the  little  lost  child. 

So,  now,  while  she  and  Buth  were  talking  so 
confidentially  with  one  another,  she  made  up  her 
mind  to  tell  her  the  story.  Together  they  wept 
over  the  missing  boy,  and  Euth  hoped  that  he 
would  be  found. 

There  came  into  the  girl's  mind  a  faint  remem- 
brance of  the  name  Gerson  as  Hilda  spoke  of  the 
father  of  her  child.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  into 
Ruth's  mind  came  the  thought  of  a  crouching 
man  upon  a  wet  road,  and  her  own  fear  as  she 
saw  her  dear  one  amid  the  falling  rain.  But 
Euth  did  not  know  or  remember  that  Gerson  had 


^6  A   CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 

been  Frank^s  room-mate  in  those  long-ago  coN 
lege  days. 

So  through  the  bright  summer  Ruth  went  to 
vlie  home  of  the  Brittles  to  spend  the  warm 
months,  and  it  was  while  there  that  she  received 
a  summons  home  as  a  trace  of  the  man  Went- 
worth  had  been  found,  and  if  she  thought  wise 
she  might  come  to  the  city. 

On  lower  Broadway  there  stands  a  building 
filled  with  struggling  lawyers.  In  every  room 
were  signs  of  poverty,  with  but  a  chair  or  two 
and  an  official-looking  rack  where  the  papers 
were  filed  that  might  happen  to  come  into  the 
firm's  hands. 

Facing  the  river  were  two  rooms  known  as  the 
oflices  ef  Gerson  and  Company.  The  same  con- 
spicuous need  of  furniture  was  apparent  as  had 
Lei  11  noticed  in  the  other  rooms. 

Tvro  young  men,  in  the  waning  of  the  after- 
noon, were  seated  together  busy  over  a  legal- 
looking  document,  and  both  were  silent. 

One  was  in  the  best  of  health,  with  startling 
red  cheeks  and  glowing  black  eyes.    The  other, 


A  CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  67 

teller  and  of  better  physique,  but  the  glow  of 
health  had  faded  from  his  face. 

"It  seems  almost  impossible,  Dick,"  said  he, 
leaning  back  languidly  in  his  chair,  "to  get  the 
idea  out  of  my  mind  that  I  ought  to  hear  from 
iiiv  guardian;  he  cannot  have  wholly  deserted 
meJ^ 

"Get  that  idea  out  of  your^  head,  Frank,"  sug- 
gested the  other.  "When  one's  people  neglects 
them  for  years  one  can  safely  say  good-bye  to 
any  hopes  ever  having  dwelt  in  the  breast.  The 
trouble  with  you  is  that  you  pass  your  days  in 
that  miserable  house,  where  the  air  is  as  foul  as 
a  prison  and  the  food  worse.  Talk  about  econ- 
omy, I  would  not  for  the  sake  of  New  York  be 
in  your  position.  The  old  hag  you  live  witt.  is 
enough  to  give  one  the  ^hypo.'    I  hate  her.'' 

With  a  puff  upon  his  cigarette  he  strode  up 
4ind  down  the  room. 

The  other  made  no  response  to  the  words. 

"You  are  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  Frank," 
«aid  the  young  lawyer,  "and  unless  you  turn 
around  about  face  you  will  find  yourself  in  the 
middle  of  six  feet  of  earth.    It  doesn^t  pay.'^ 


C8  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

Frank  Wentworth  leaned  his  head  upon  hfe 
arm.  A  pained  expression  followed  the  flippant 
words  of  his  companion. 

'^But  what  are  you  going  to  do  when  money 
comes  in  like  the  drops  of  dew  and  with  no  more  ^ 
certainty?   Old  Mag,  I  grant  you,  is  a  tramp,  and 
her  husband  is  worse,  but  the  girl,  the  child  there,. 
Dick,  is  a  treasure.    One  cannot  help  loving  her.'^ 

^^I  saw  her  flying  with  unkempt  hair  and  dirty 
face  in  front  of  a  driving  automobile  the  other 
day,  and  a  nastier  child  I  have  never  seen.'^  There 
was  seeming  disgust  in  the  voice  of  the  speaker 
as  he  took  a  third  turn  about  the  room. 

^'True,  she  is  dirty,"  answered  the  sickly -look- 
ing man;  ^^true,  as  you  say,  but  she  is  not  to 
blame.  What  do  you  expect  from  a  woman  who 
is  drinking  half  the  time?  I  only  stay  there  on 
account  of  the  child." 

"Well,  you  are  more  of  a  philanthropist  than 
I,"  was  the  reply.    "I  could  not  for  any  living  i 
being  sacrifice  my  health  and  happiness  as  you 
are  doing." 

There  was  complete  silence  for  a  time  save  for 
the  frantic  puffing  of  a  half-lighted  cigarette  and 


A  CHILD  OF  THE   SLUMS.  69 

the  squeaking  of  the  rolling  chair  as  the  lawyer 
turned  back  and  forth  nervously  in  it. 

"It  is  my  private  opinion/'  went  on  Gerson, 
*^that  you  are  worrying  over  that  girl  who  jilted 
jou  at  college.  Why  under  the  sun  do  you  allow 
an  old  dead  matter  to  infuse  your  life  with 
misery  and  turn  your  hair  like  this?"  and  Ger- 
-son  lifted  a  half-grey  lock  from  the  broad  brow. 

"I  shall  never  outlive  my  love  for  Euth  Ferris, 
and  anyway,"  here  the  voice  grew  tender  with 
emotion,  "anyway,  Dick,  old  fellow,  I'm  not  for 
long.    I  would  die  with  her  name  upon  my  lips." 

"Fudge  and  twice  fudge !"  stormed  the  other, 
Mting  his  lips  furiously.  "You  make  me  tired 
with  your  sentimentality.  Why  do  you  not,  for 
love  of  Heaven,  take  another  tack  and  be  a  man? 
Go  away  for  a  week  or  so,  and  you  will  be  new 
when  you  return." 

"I  cannot,  Dick,"  was  the  reply,  "for  I  have 
much  to  do  before  the  end  comes." 

If  the  exhausted  man  had  known  what  the  end 
meant,  and  all  the  awful  trials  which  would  come 
to  him  before  the  end  did  come,  he  would  not  have 
complacently  gathered  his  pencils  into  his  pocket 


70  A   CHILD   OF   THE  SLUMS. 

and  take  his  hat  from  the  nail  with  almost  a  look 
of  resignation  upon  the  worn  face.  The  end 
meant  to  him,  after  the  work  was  finished,  onlj^ 
a  weary  laying  down  of  life  and  its  stern  duties--*, 
this  was  all. 

He  walked  across  Broadway  until  he  reached 
the  Bowery,  and  turning  into  the  dirty,  noisy 
street  he  passed  on  and  on,  till  growing  more 
tired,  his  steps  lagged  by  the  way. 

Farther  down  the  street  he  could  hear  the 
grinding  of  an  organ  and  see  the  inevitable  mon- 
key  running  about  on  his  string. 

As  he  directed  his  footsteps  toward  a  shanty 
which  stood  back  in  a  lot  a  child  about  the  age 
of  seven,  with  straggling  golden  curls,  sped  down 
the  alley  and  ran  up  toward  him.  Her  skirts 
were  ragged  and  torn  completely  across,  the  bare 
feet  were  red  from  the  hot  bricks.  The  dark  eyes 
were  filled  with  fire,  a  mouth  full  of  pearl-white 
teeth  shone  through  the  well-shaped  red  lips. 

"Ah,  Midge,"  said  the  man,  "you  have  come  to 
meet  me,  have  you?  Well,  I'm  glad,  for  I  don't 
feel  very  well  to-day.  Can  you  not  see  it?'^  Prom 
the  dark  eyes  of  the  child  the  tears  welled  ovifY- 


A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS.  7X 

and  she  smacked  them  away  with  her  fingers, 
dirty  and  sticky  from  molasses. 

"I  don't  want  not'in'  to  happen  to  youse,  Mr.  , 
Frank/^  sobbed  she,  wriggling  along  sidewise  and  . 
trying  to  hide  her  emotion.     "I  hain't  got  no 
friend  but  youse,  sir.'' 

"We  will  have  hopes  then,  dear  little  Midge^ 
that  I  shall  remain  with  you  always,  for  if  ever 
a  child  needed  a  friend  you  do." 

The  child  hung  her  head.  She  wanted  to  fol- 
low the  man  to  his  room,  which  was  in  the  gar- 
ret of  the  house.  But  something  in  the  tired 
eyes  forbade  her  from  doing  so. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  something,  sir,"  said  she, 
trembling  faintly,  "and  then  you  will  let  Midge 
come  to  youse  room;  tell  me,  will  youse?" 

Frank  Wentworth  grasped  the  hand  of  the- 
child,  leading  her  up  the  stairs.  "You  may  tell 
me  now,  my  dear,  and  please  God  it  will  do  you 
some  good.  Have  you  heard  anything  about  your 
own  people?" 

"No,  sir,  'tain't  that,"  whispered  the  little  one; 
'tain't  that,  sir,  but  if  I  tells  youse,  don't  let  Wild 
Mag  know  that  I  told  you,  will  youse?" 


72  A   CHILD  OF   THE   SLUMS. 

The  sacred  promise  was  given,  but  before  the 
story  was  begun,  Frank  washed  the  beautiful, 
childish  face  and  soaped  well  the  hands,  which 
would  have  done  credit  to  a  millionaire's  daugh- 
ter. 

^*Now  we  will  listen  to  the  story,"  said  Frank, 
but  the  child  had  evidently  forgotten  what  she 
had  come  to  tell,  for,  spying  a  locket  upon  the 
chain  hidden  next  to  the  heart  of  the  sick  man, 
she  made  a  request  that  she  might  see  it. 

Frank,  who  could  deny  the  child  nothing,  took 
the  picture  from  the  little  locket  and  placed  it 
between  the  child's  fingers. 

*^0h,  ain't  she  beautiful,"  said  Midge;  "but  gee, 
Mr.  Frank,  any  feller  who  could  get  her  would 
be  a  jim-dandy.    Be  she  youse  goil?" 

Frank  laughed  at  the  tone  of  inquiry  and  the 
question. 

Ah,  dear  Heaven,  how  much  he  wished  that 
the  dear  face  was  that  of  his  "goil."  Once  he  had 
thought  she  was  to  be  his,  but  the  old  dreams 
were  past  and  Kuth  was  but  a  myth  in  his  life. 
Had  he  not  gotten  a  letter  from  her  aunt,  saying 
that  the  girl  was  to  be  married,  and  for  him  not 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.  73 

to  ruin  her  prospects  by  placing  himself  in  her 
way?  And  this  cold,  cruel  letter  had  blasted  his 
life  and  made  him  look  differently  upon  the 
world.  The  child  was  still  gazing  at  the  pic- 
ture. 

Frank  looked  into  the  pretty  face  and  then  at 
the  child.  He  placed  the  locket  again  upon  the 
chain,  closing  the  cover  with  a  snap. 

^We  have  forgotten,  Midge,''  said  he,  almost 
severely,  "that  we  came  here  to  talk  about  some- 
thing you  had  to  tell  ma    I  am  listening." 


^4  A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"The  story,  if  you  please,  or  question,  whicli- 
ever  you  call  it." 

Frank  Wentworth  repeated  this  with  empba- 
sis.  He  could  not  afford  to  let  the  child  see  th«t 
he  loved  an  imaginary  girl  who  had  long  ago  for- 
gotten  him. 

Midge  looked  thoughtfully  into  his  face.  She 
pulled  the  dirty  dress  closer  about  her  black  legs. 

^^Does  youse  love  dat  pretty  lady?''  said  she,, 
demandiug  the  information  as  if  it  were  her  right 
to  know.  "For  if  youse  does,  and  youse  can't 
■have  her,  den  I  knows  what  it  is  dat  makes  youse 
sick.'^ 

But  Frank  did  not  answer.  He  gravely  took 
the  childish  face  in  his  hands,  repeating  that  h(^ 
must  know  just  what  it  was  that  Midge  had 
wanted  of  him. 

"Oh,  what  I  were  a-going  to  say,^^  and  the  child 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  75t 

bobbed  up  and  down,  her  little  face  flaming  red^ 
^4s  dat  ole  Wild  Mag  had  been  a-lying  ter  me 
and  ter  youse  and  ter  everybody.  I  ain't  no  goil, 
and  I  ain't  never  been,  does  youse  understan'? 
I'se  a  boy,  and  dese  togs  don't  long  a-dangling 
'bout  my  legs." 

The  child  slipped  down  and  gathered  the  rags^ 
up  firmly  in  its  hands  and  drew  them  tightly 
up  betw^een  its  sturdy  little  legs. 

"I  will  be  more  like  dis,  when  I  get  trousers: 
likes  I  ought  to  have.  Wild  Mag  says  I  sha'n't 
have  them,  but  I  says  I  will,  or  I'se  don't  sell  no 
more  papers.  She  says  dat  folks  don't  give  to  a 
boy  like  a  goil,  but  I  won't  be  a  goil  no  more. 
Would  you,  Mr.  Frank  ?'^ 

"Well,  I  should  say  not,  my  boy;  so  you  are 
not  Midge,  that  is,  you  can't  go  by  a  girl's  name. 
Who  does  Mrs.  Maglone  say  you  are?" 

"Oh,  she  never  tells  me  anything  ^bout  that, 
but  the  minute  I  found  out  her  lie  I  told  her  dat 
I  must  have  breeches,  and  she  guv  me  dis."  I 

Hastily  pulling  up  his  dress  the  now  boy,  who 
had  for  the  whole  of  his  short  life  supposed  he 
Avas  a  girl,  showed  the  blue  stripes,  several  of 


'76  A  CHILD  OP  THB  SLUMS. 

them,  until  it  made  Frank's  blood  run  cold  to 
think  of  the  childish  pain. 

"It  is  a  shame/'  expostulated  he,  squeezing  the 
^  little  form  closer  to  him.  "I  am  so  sorry,  little 
boy." 

It  seemed  to  bring  the  child  nearer  to  him — 
the  news  he  had  just  been  told.  The  sweet  face 
he  had  ever  loved,  but  the  question  wa^y  whose 
child  was  he? 

Frank  soothed  the  childish  mind  by  telling  the 
boy  that  he  would  speak  to  the  woman  with 
whom  they  both  lived,  making  her  understand 
that  she  must  allow  the  boy  to  assert  his  sex  in 
the  shape  of  a  new  pair  of  trousers. 

For  a  little  while  the  two  talked,  and  Frank 
sought  the  woman  who  had  kept  him  from  the 
street  for  many  months. 

Maggy  Maglone  had  not  always  been  the  fallen 
creature  she  was  now,  but  evil  associations  and 
drink  had  degenerated  her  into  a  fiend.  She  lived 
upon  the  money  which  the  little  golden-haired 
child  received  from  charitable  strangers. 

For  years  past,  in  fact,  since  the  boy  could 
walk,  the  entire  family  had  been  supported  with 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  ^J 

the  few  pennies  which  he  brought  to  the  old 
woman.  Still,  Bill  Maglone  had  under  his  house 
a  room  where  counterfeit  money  was  made.  This 
the  members  of  the  gang  passed  and  were  in  con- 
stant danger  of  being  detected.  Several  times 
Maglone  had  been  arrested  for  drunkenness,  but 
the  worst  of  his  crimes  were  not  known  to  the 
police.  The  wife  protected  her  husband,  and 
with  Irish  wit  the  two  had  escaped  the  peniten- 
tiary. 

Frank  Wentworth,  with  a  determined  face  and 
the  child  by  the  hand,  entered  the  little  room 
where  remnants  of  bread  and  molasses  were  still 
upon  the  table. 

"Mrs.  Maglone,"  he  said,  severely,  "the  child 
has  told  me  a  story  which  I  want  you  to  verify  or 
to  deny.  Is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl?"  and  Frank  Went- 
worth held  out  his  hand  to  the  child  and  shoved 
the  little  body  toward  the  old  hag. 

"And  who  says  she  ain't  little  Midge,  the  child 
of  my  heart?"  sniveled  the  artful  woman.    "Who  . 
gays  that  I  ain't  cared  for  her  all  these  years? 
Who  did  you  say  said  it?" 

The  vile  face  was  poked  close  to  that  of  the 


^8  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

man  and  the  long,  skinny  arms  drew  into  them 
the  child^  who  started  away  and  rolled  its  eyes 
up  at  Frank,  gesticulating  dissatisfaction  with 
the  termination.    He  understood  and  went  on. 

'^I  shall  make  an  investigation  as  to  this  child's 
people.  You  should  not  send  him  out  for  beer 
Into  the  dives.    He  is  a  boy  all  right.'^ 

^^Yes,  and  I  am  going  to  wear  trousers/^  howled 
the  youngster.  "I  don't  want  dese  kind  of  duds 
any  longer." 

The  woman  saw  it  was  of  no  use  to  evade  the 
subject. 

"And  ain't  youse  worn  them  all  the  time  since 
youse  was  born,  I'd  like  to  know?  The  fine  folks 
like  the  girl  better  than  the  boy." 

"That  was  your  reason,  then,  of  putting  this 
vile  rag  upon  the  child  ?'^  asked  Wentworth. 
^^Take  it  off  and  give  him  trousers,  immediately." 

The  command  cowed  the  woman  almost  into 
obedience.  Her  boarder  had  such  a  tone  of 
authority  when  he  spoke  that  she  did  not  dare 
to  openly  disobey  him. 

But  she  cried  out  her  displeasure  at  being 
t)alked  in  her  plans  for  future  maintenance,  urg- 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  79^ 

iBg  upon  the  child  the  necessity  of  appearing 
before  the  fine  Broadway  people  as  a  little  girl. 

'^^Look  at  dem  curls,  now,  Mr.  Wentworth/^ 
ivlieedled  she ;  "don't  yon  think  dat  dat  face  is  too*  y 
.sweet  for  a  boy?    God  Almighty  made  a  mistakei  ^ 
and  I  have  only  tried  a  little  to  mend  it.''  [ 

But  no  amount  of  persuasion  could  make  the 
friend  of  the  child  change  his  mind;  he  would 
iiave  the  boy  in  trousers  if  he  had  to  purchase 
^hem  himself. 

*         *  »  ♦  »  ♦  » 

Frank  Wentworth  went  back  to  his  own  room. 
It  was  there  he  wrote  the  letter  to  his  uncle'a 
lawyer  asking  for  aid.  It  was  to  be  his  last  ap- 
peal. Taking  the  letter  in  his  hand  he  walked 
to  the  box  and  mailed  it.  The  small  white  envel- 
ope created  a  stir  in  the  office  of  Mathers  and! 
Company,  Immediately  a  message  was  sent  to 
lUith,  who  came  into  the  city  with  Hilda,  for 
!  lie  rich  man's  wife  was  anxious  to  see  her  friend 
'lappy. 

They  arrived  in  the  morning  and  Mathers  met 
them  with  the  family  carriage. 


go  A   CHILD  OP  THB  SLUMS. 

^^And  you  have  heard?"  asked  Ruth  breath- 
lessly; "do  tell  me." 

Mr.  Mathers  settled  back  into  the  luxurious 
cushions,  and  it  seemed  to  Euth  that  he  would 
never  speak. 

"x\t  last  we  have  heard/'  was  all  he  said. 

Ruth  was  contented  a  moment,  for  she  felt  that 
soon  she  would  know  just  what  had  happened. 

Mrs.  Mathers  drew  the  girl  to  her  arms,  telling 
her  to  hope. 

Then  the  exact  condition  of  the  will  was  gone 
over.  Ruth  was  told  that  her  lover  was  sick  and 
poverty-stricken,  ill  at  the  home  of  his  landlady. 

A  great  feeling  of  joy  welled  into  the  girPs 
heart  as  she  heard  these  words.  Then  he  would 
be  hers  again ! 

"It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  hare  not  heard 
from  him,"  said  she,  after  a  time  of  silence. 

"It  is  my  idea,"  began  Mrs.  Mathers,  "that  the 
young  fellow  Avas  too  proud  to  seek  you  when 
his  whole  life  has  been  a  failure.  Now  affairs 
are  changed." 

"Not  so  changed  after  all,  my  love,"  drawled 
Mr.  Mathers,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes  w^hich 


A   CHILD  OP  THB  SLUMS.  gl 

brought  forth  a  look  of  concern  from  Ruth.  She 
did  not  believe  it  possible  for  these  two  to  go  one 
day  and  not  bicker  over  the  most  trivial  things. 
The  remark  from  the  lawyer  caused  his  wife  to 
spring  to  her  feet. 

*^A11  you  know  about  young  hearts,'^  said  she. 
^^You  have  been  old  and  tough  for  years.  You 
miserable  fellow!" 

"Oh,  aunty!"  cautioned  Ruth,  lovingly — hhe 
had  grown  to  use  this  endearing  title  to  the 
woman — "you  will  be  sorry  if  you  talk  to  uncle 
that  way." 

"Now,  no,  I  won't,  Ruth,  for  he  is  too  exasper- 
ating for  anything.  Don't  try  to  make  me  speak 
to  him  again,  for  it  will  be  no  use." 

Mr.  Mathers  had  on  a  broad  grin.  Ruth  wanted 
to  proceed  with  the  discussion;  her  anxiety  being 
great  for  plans  to  meet  Frank. 

"Your  aunt  has  taken  leave  of  her  senses,"  said 
the  lawyer,  giving  Ruth  an  affectionate  smile. 
"She  is  a  lady  who  would  soon  put  her  husband 
in  a  padded  cell."  , 

"I  wish  I  could  put  you  in  your  grave,  you  ^ 


^2  ^  CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS. 

ranter,"  sobbed  the  wife.  "You  place  me  in  such 
Bositions  that  I  hardly  know  which  way  to  turn.'' 

'^riii8«i,  if  you  are  willing,  I  will  take  leave  of 
joii,  and  you  shall  not  be  bothered  with  me 
again." 

Mrs.  Mathers  stopped  in  her  parade  up  and 
^own  the  room;  she  looked  keenly  through  her 
tears  into  her  husband's  face.  There  seemed  to 
lier  to  be  a  look  of  determination  upon  it.  Was 
fie  really  going  to  do  something  rash  because  she 
iiad  spoken  crossly  to  him?  But  did  he  not 
commence  it? 

The  man  saw  he  had  the  advantage  and  com- 
menced : 

^^I  am  constantly  making  you  feel  badly,  my 
idear,  and  now  you  have  wished  me  dead.  I  shall 
^/>2nply  with  your  wishes.'^ 

Saying  this  he  placed  his  hand  in  his  hip 
pocket  as  if  to  take  something  from  it. 

^'Sweetheart,  you  shall  not!"  screamed  the 
/lady.  ^'You  are  my  darling  husband  and  I  can- 
not live  without  you." 

They  were  in  each  other^s  arms  almost  imme- 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  83- 

liately,  rocking  back  and  forth  in  the  ecstasy  of 
heir  reconciliation. 

Ruth  gave  a  broad  smile  into  the  lawyer's  face, 
thankful  that  the  quarrel  came  to  such  a  timely 
climax. 

"We  will  now  proceed  to  business,  and  see  if 
there  is  some  way  open  to  arrange  for  a  meeting 
with  the  august  young  heir/' 

Ruth  listened  with  delight  as  the  lawyer  said 
lie  would  go  the  next  night  to  the  address  upon 
the  letter. 

So  accordingly,  the  next  day  Frank  Went- 
worth  received  a  note  from  the  law  firm,  saying 
that  Mr.  Mathers  would  call  upon  him  in  person 
and  make  such  arrangements  as  were  necessary 
for  his  care,  according  to  the  terms  of  the  will. 
But  they  were  careful  not  to  mention  the  girl's 
name  in  the  missive. 

But  fate  seemed  against  the  sick  young  man. 
He  was  too  ill  to  care.  Gerson  opened  and  read 
;^the  letter* 

"I'll  bet  it's  come  at  last,"  muttered  he,  as  he 
sat  by  the  bed  and  listened  to  the  moanings  of 


84  A   CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 

the  sick  man.  "I'll  bet  he  has  a  fartune  coming 
to  him/' 

But  he  could  not  arouse  the  slumbering  man, 
and  laid  the  letter  upon  the  table. 

All  through  the  day  and  into  the  following 
one  he  sat  by  his  college  chum^  Midge  coming  in 
once  in  a  while  like  a  pale  sprite,  doing  errands 
and  appearing  much  concerned  over  the  severe 
turn  Frank's  illness  had  taken. 

The  child  wondered  what  w^ould  became  of  him^ 
if  unkindly  death  should  take  from  him  his  only 
friend,  for  there  was  no  mistaking  the  feeling  the 
man  had  had  for  the  child  as  long  as  his  senses^ 
remained.  Once  Midge  heard  him  murmur  the 
name  of  "Ruth,"  and  the  child's  mind  went  back 
to  the  day  w^hen  he  had  been  shown  the  picture 
in  the  locket.  How  well  he  remem^bered  the  look 
of  pain  that  spread  across  the  man's  face  as  he 
had  covered  the  pictured  face  and  placed  the 
little  gold  bauble  in  his  pocket. 

And  now  he  was  lying  dying,  so  the  doctor 
said.  This  meant  that  Midge  would  be  without 
a  friend  in  the  world. 

He  sat  with  his  little  fists  digging  his  eye% 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  85 

v^eeping  back  by  mere  manly  force  the  tears  which 
oozed  through  his  lids.  He  got  up  and  went  into 
the  street.  He  walked  along,  kicking  out  his  legs 
now  free  from  the  obnoxious  skirts.  He  wan- 
dered through  the  Bowery  and  turned  the  corner 
toward  Broadway.  Suddenly  he  came  close  to  a 
magnificent  carriage.  In  it  were  two  ladies,  while 
from  the  side  a  gentleman  was  hurrying  away. 

"What  a  singularly  pretty  child !"  Midge  heard 
one  sweet  voice  say.    "His  hair  is  like  spun  gold." 

"But  awfully  dirty,"  another  voice  uttered.  He 
looked  down  at  his  soiled,  bare  legs  and  tried  to 
wipe  off  some  of  the  dust  from  his  trousers. 

But  he  was  not  destined  to  pass  on. 

f ^Come  here,  child,"  the  first  speaker  called ;  "I 
want  to  speak  to  you." 

It  was  Hilda  Brittle  who  spoke,  and  shyly  the 
child  edged  his  way  toward  the  carriage.  Euth 
was  waiting,  with  catching  breath,  for  mare  than 
a  slum  child.  Was  not  Prank  at  the  end  of  that 
horrible,  dirty  street,  and  was  he  not  ill?  She 
narrowed  her  eyes  into  a  dreamy  expression  and 
watched  Hilda  as  with  delicate  white  gloves  she 
drew  the  boy  toward  her. 


]B6  A   CHILD   OP   THE  SLUMS. 

"You  are  a  dear  little  creature/^  said  the  beao- 
tiful  woman.    "Will  you  tell  me  your  name?^^ 

"Midge/'  was  the  reply. 

"But  that  is  a  girPs  name/^  answered  Hilda^ 
"and  you  are  every  bit  a  boy.  She  eyed  the 
straight  legs  and  small,  dirty  hands.  Somehow 
her  thoughts  went  back  into  the  past  to  a  certain 
black-eyed  darling  who  had  so  suddenly  left  her.. 
Now  two  pleading  dark  eyes,  surrounded  with 
golden  curls,  were  gazing  into  her  own. 

"I  were  a  goil  until  lately,"  the  child  answered 
simpij'  enough.  "I  didn't  know  I  were  a  boy  till 
a  few  days  ago.'' 

Hilda  clutched  the  child's  hands  closer.  It 
soothed  the  constant  pain  at  her  bleeding  heart. 
It  was  for  little  Dicky's  sake  that  sjie  pressed  the 
hands  of  the  waif. 

"And  where  do  you  live,  my  child  ?"^  asked  she^ 
loath  to  allow  him  to  go  away.  "Are  you  one  of 
the  children  of  the  Bowery  T' 

The  child's  eyes  widened  and  theB(  drooped.^ 
At  last,  "I'm  only  a  little  child  o^f  der  slums,'^ 
said  he. 

The  answer  brought  the  tears  into  Hilda^s  eyea. 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS,  g^ 

Even  Ruth  sat  up  and  drew  her  handkerchi^^f 
from  her  handbag. 

^^And  haven't  you  a  mother ?''  more  tei^^ 
asked  Hilda, 

^^Not  as  I  kin  remember,"  whispered  the  bq^. 
*^I  just  guess  I  blowed  into  der  earth  'out  no  pa 
and  ma.'' 

^^Then  where  do  you  live?"  asked  Rtitl%  -mm^' 
thoroughly  interested.    "You  must  have  a  home.r" 

"I  roosts  down  here  at  Old  Wild  Mag's,  bi^ 
she  don't  like  nothin'  'bout  me  but  der  chink  \. 
brings  her." 

Hilda  opened  her  pocketbook  and  took  out  fifty 
cents.  She  placed  it  between  the  childish,  dirtr 
fingers,  which  clutched  it  over  as  if  it  had  beem 
a  gem  of  purest  water.  Ruth  remarked  afterward 
that  probably  that  money  would  soften  |R«^' 
child's  blows  that  night. 

"Where  does  youse  live?"  asked  the  cbllu, 
quickly;  "does  youse  live  'bout  here?" 

"No,"  replied  the  sweetest  voice  Midge  fe- -I 
ever  heard.    "I  live  at  the  Plaza  Hotel.    W«fF^iifl " 
you  like  to  come  and  see  me  some  time?" 

Ruth  put  her  hand  upon  Hilda's  arm. 


88  ^  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

"Don't  go  too  far,  dear/'  cautioned  she;  "yoa 
can  never  tell  what  trouble  such  people  will  make 
you." 

"I  wouldn't  hurt  the  pretty  lady,  ma'am/'  re- 
1  plied  Midge  in  a  low  tone,  fixing  his  large  eyes 
upon  Euth's  face,  and  straightway  that  young 
lady  felt  ashamed  of  herself  and  subsided  into 
the  cushions  of  the  carriage,  listening  while 
Hilda  planned  that  the  little  child  of  the  slums 
should  call  upon  her  at  her  room  in  two  days 
from  that  time. 

"l)ey  might  not  let  me  in  dere,"  said  Midge, 
anxious  for  fear  when  he  should  arrive  at  the 
hotel  the  brass-buttoned  men  should  turn  him 
away. 

"I'll  leave  word  for  you  to  be  admitted,"  re- 
plied the  lady,  smiling. 

Midge  felt  that  he  was  going  to  cry,  just  why 
he  could  not  tell,  but  there  was  something  in  the 
dear  tones  that  stirred  his  wicked  little  heart  to 
its  very  depths. 

Suddenly  there  came  into  the  dark  depths  of 
the  fast-filling  eyes  an  expression  which  struck 
terror  to  Hilda's  eyes. 


A  CHILD   OF   THE  SLUMS.  89 

^^I  believe  they  are  his  eyes,"  she  murmured  to 
herself.  ^^If  I  could  get  that  one  little  child  from 
my  mind  it  seems  as  if  I  should  go  mad." 

But  neither  Euth  nor  the  wondering  child 
heard  the  murmur,  and  Midge  felt  the  white- 
gloved  hand  press  his  convulsively  as  she  kissed 
the  dirty  little  face  good-bye. 

"Dat's  the  sweetest  lady  in  all  der  world," 
muttered  the  child,  "but  de  odder,  who  was  afraid 
I'd  hurt  the  pretty  one,  looks  like  der  face  in  Mr* 
Frank's  locket" 


90  A   CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Mb.  Mathers  passed  down  the  Bowery,  looking 
at  the  numbers  as  he  walked.  Often  he  looked  at 
a  slip  of  paper  which  he  carried  in  his  hand.  He 
was  soon  from  the  sight  of  the  ladies,  hurrying 
past  the  stuffy  stores,  and  halted  in  front  of 
the  number  upon  the  paper. 

Upstairs  Gerson  had  succeeded  in  arousing  the 
sick  man. 

"Is  it  you,  Dick?'^  the  pale  lips  muttered. 

"Sure,  old  fellow,  you  are  weak  and  tired 
for  the  want  of  proper  food  and  care.  I'm  going 
to  insist  upon  your  leaving  here.''  Again  the 
troubled  eyes  slumbered,  but  almost  immediately 
opened  again. 

"If  I  could  only  see  Euth  once,''  murmured  be. 
*^Only  once  before  I  go  away."  ^ 

"You  are  not  going  to  die,"  roughly  replies! 


A   CHILD   OP  THE  SLUMS.  91 

Gerson;  "cheer  up,  I  know  you  are  pretty  sick, 
but  there  is  always  hope.'' 

"I  loved  her  so,  Dick,  and  to  think  she  w^ouW 
marry  when  she  was  my  promised  wife!'' 

"They'll  all  do  it,  unless  one  is  unlucky  to  gex 
her  first.  For  my  part,  I  think  you  are  a  lucky 
man/^ 

But  Gerson  remembered  the  feeling  of  jeal- 
ousy that  came  into  his  heart  on  that  long-ago 
day  when  a  fairy  form  glided  into  the  wood  and 
a  passionate  voice  sang  out  the  message  of  the 
rosary.  But  he  only  flippantly  remarked  that  he 
had  no  faith  in  women,  and  never  would  have. 

"But  you  did  not  know  Ruth,"  whispered 
Frank,  "she  was  different  from  most  girls." 

The  tired  head  sank  wearily  upon  the  pillow^ 
the  white  lips  were  drawn  with  pain. 

"But  she  was  not  unlike  them  all  enough  to 
keep  her  promise  to  you,  and  I  would  forget 
her.'' 

"That  is  not  possible,'^  «aid  the  faint  voice,  "no 
more  can  the  day  forget  the  sun." 

Then  again  he  seemed  to  gather  strength,  and 
raised  upon  his  arm. 


^3  A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS. 

"You  were  going  to  marry  Hilda  Rhodes  at  one 
time,"  said  he. 

"Was  I?  Well,  I  didn't,  and  mighty  glad  I  am 
of  it.    A  whining  woman  is  not  to  my  liking." 

Gerson  was  fingering  the  letter  which  was  yet 
anshown  to  its  owner.  Should  he  give  it  to  Frank 
or  not? 

Suddenly  over  the  sick  face  came  a  ghastly 
change.  Gerson  sprang  to  the  bedside.  He  could 
«ee  the  white  death-damp  settling  over  the  strong 
face.  Once  did  the  dark  eyes  fly  open,  and  then 
droop  in  sheer  exhaustion. 

A  step  upon  the  stairs  and  the  doctor's  face 
protruded  itself  into  the  doorway. 

"Is  he  better?''  asked  he,  w^alking  toward  the 
bed.  "Ah,  no.  He  will  not  need  anything  more 
in  this  world.  He  is  breathing  his  last."  The 
man  of  medicine  said  this  as  he  took  his  hat  and 
passed  out.  He  could  not  spare  time  with  the 
dead — his  duty  lay  with  the  living.  Gerson  stood 
and  looked  down  into  the  still,  white  face.  He 
had  often  been  taken  for  Frank's  brother.  The 
doctor  had  even  asked  him  if  they  were  relations. 

Had  the  man  not  asked  him  what  the  dead 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  93 

man's  name  was?  And  he  had  told  him  it  was 
Richard  Gerson,  and  Bill  Maglone,  hearing  the 
Einswer,  rolled  a  quid  of  tobacco  into  his  cheek 
and  protruded  a  very  red  tongue  and  put  the  fact 
down  that  the  living  man  was  trying  to  pass  him- 
self off  for  the  dead  one,  for  future  reference. 
Bill  had  shown  the  doctor  out,  leaving  the  dead 
and  the  living  in  close  proximity  to  each  other. 

"My  God !''  gasped  Gerson,  as  he  realized  what 
he  had  done.  "Is  it  possible  that  I  have  given  the 
wrong  name.  Of  course,  I  want  to  be  Prank 
Wentworth,  and  who  would  not,  with  these  pros- 
pects?^' Just  as  he  was  cogitating  upon  the  mat- 
ter the  door  again  opened  and  a  man  of  about 
forty,  tall,  handsome  and  distinguished-looking, 
entered  the  room. 

"Am  I  speaking  to  Mr.  Frank  Wentworth?'^ 
said  he,  and  Richard  Gerson,  looking  at  the  dead 
face,  wondered  if  he  could  harm  the  quiet  figure 
any,  and  answered,  "Yes." 

"Then  allow  me  to  shake  hands  with  you,''  said 
Mr.  Mathers,  jovially,  "for  it  is  my  pleasure  to 
bring  you  the  good  news  of  a  fortune.    You  have 


^4  A   CHILD   OF   THE  SLUMS. 

been  left  heir  to  considerable  money,  condition- 
ally, if  you  will  marry  a  certain  lady.'^ 

Gerson,  in  his  fear  that  the  man  might  note 
^  (the  silent  figure  upon  the  bed,  led  him,  talking, 
from  the  room.  In  that  little  bare  chamber  where 
the  rightful  heir  had  lived  so  long,  lay  all  that 
was  left,  of  poor  Frank  Wentworth.  No  wonder 
when  Mr.  Mathers  came  back  to  the  carriage 
alone  with  the  story  that  he  had  found  the  young 
man  that  Ruth  said : 

"He  must  be  the  one,  uncle.  There  can  be  no 
mistake,  think  you?" 

"Mistake  nothing,'^  said  that  gentleman.  "He 
showed  me  certain  papers  which  makes  me  know 
that  he  is  the  right  man,  and  the  young  fellow 
you  loved  in  those  long-ago  college  days  will  be 
with  you  to-night.'^ 

Ruth,,  with  Hilda  holding  her  hand,  cried 
silently  behind  her  veil.  The  shock  had  been  so 
great  and  she  so  hoped  that  it  was  her  lover  in 
that  little  hovel  in  the  Bowery. 

After  the  man  had  departed  Gerson,  or  the  new 
Frank  Wentworth  as  he  will  now  have  to  be 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  95 

called  in  his  new  position,  went  back  to  his 
dead  friend.  The  same  white,  set  look,  deepened 
into  a  grey  pallor,  had  settled  over  the  face.  The 
I  bloodless  lips  were  compressed  together,  and  Ger- 
8on  took  the  long,  white  fingers  and  locked  them 
together. 

^^How  warm  he  is  yet,"  muttered  he.  "I  wonder 
if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  that  he  is  living.  I  will 
make  sure  of  it.^' 

Dipping  a  cloth  into  cold  water  he  folded  it 
over  the  white  face,  and  with  a  deadly  fear  tug- 
ging at  his  heart  he  gathered  up  the  papers  neces- 
sary to  identify  himself  and  walked  out  into  the 
open  air. 

Midge  in  the  meantime  came  scurrying  back. 

His  little  feet  were  keeping  time  to  a  tune 
played  by  an  old  organ  grinder.  Even  while 
Midgets  heart  hurt  him  he  could  dance.  From 
the  time  he  was  a  creeping  baby  and  had  learned 
to  climb  up  by  the  neighbors'  children  he  had 
kept  time  to  the  straggling  musicians  who  in- 
fested that  part  of  the  Bowery.  Now  he  was  on 
hig  way  home  still  with  his  toes  tingling  for  a 
dance.     Somehow  the  blood  flew  into  his  face  i 


96  A   CHILD   OF  THE  SLUMS. 

when  he  thought  of  his  dying  friend.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  watch  him  go,  for  the  sick 
man  would  not  eat  any  of  the  dogs,  or  weiner- 
wursts,  as  they  were  rightfully  called,  which  the 
child  would  bring. 

He  reached  his  home  and  entered  the  door. 
Mag  and  Bill  were  talking  softly  in  the  corner. 
The  man  was  gesticulating  wildly  with  his  hands. 
They  paid  little  heed  to  the  boy,  and  he  noted 
them  not,  save  with  a  glance  of  hatred,  the  feel- 
ing being  born  in  his  young  heart  from  the  cruel 
way  they  had  treated  the  sick  man  upstairs. 

He  crept  up  the  attic  steps  one  after  another^ 
He  did  not  know  but  that  the  handsome  friend  of 
Frank,  whom  he  had  never  liked,  might  be  there 
and  tell  him  that  his  room  was  preferable  to  his 
company. 

But  there  was  such  a  solemn  silence  about  the 
place  that  Midge  tiptoed  over  to  the  cot. 

He  saw  the  white  cover  over  the  curly  head  and 
grasped  the  cloth  and  pulled  it  off. 

He  did  not  understand  the  doctor  had  said  that, 
the  man  was  dead,  nor  would  he  believe  his  eyes» 


A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS.  97 

He  knelt  down  beside  the  cot  and  chafed  the  now 
unlocked  fingers. 

A  spasm  of  pain  shot  across  the  face  and  Frank 
Wentworth  slowly  opened  his  eyes. 

-^Am  I  dead,  and  who  are  you?"  whispered  he, 
with  great  difficulty. 

"It  is  Midge,"  said  a  little  voice,  softly,  and 
the  child  turned  the  faint  light  of  the  candle 
upon  the  white  face. 

"Have  I  been  asleep  long?"  asked  Frank,  as 
Midge  worked  about  him  with  tender  hands. 

There  was  something  in  the  kiss  left  upon  the 
little  face  by  the  beautiful  lady  that  made  the 
child  softer  of  heart.  He  looked  upon  the  sweet 
caresses  as  an  idolizing  audience  would  upon  the 
last  benediction  of  a  beloved  pastor.  Frank 
Wentworth,  Midge  knew,  was  very  ill,  but  not 
dead.  The  child  realized  that  while  there  was 
life  there  was  hope.  He  sent  again  after  the  doc- 
tor, who  came  in  a  hurry. 

That  gentleman  did  not  care  to  know  the  name 
of  his  patient.  That  had  passed  from  his  mind. 
There  were  other  things  of  more  importance.  So 
lie  gathered  together  all  the  strength  of  the  sick 


98  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

man  and  gave  him  the  desired  medicine,  leaving: 
word  that  he  would  call  in  the  morning. 

*  «  «  «  • 

Ruth  listened  to  the  story  of  finding  Went- 
worth  and  with  beating  heart  waited  for  him  to 
appear  that  evening.  Mathers  had  told  the  young 
man  that  he  would  be  expected  to  dine  with  them, 
not  telling  him  of  the  former  romance  he  had 
once  had  or  supposed  to  have  had  with  the  young 
heiress. 

Hilda  was  almost  as  anxious  as  her  friend.  She 
loved  the  pretty  girl  with  a  sisterly  alBfection. 
She,  too,  donned  her  beautiful  white  dress,  look- 
ing more  like  a  golden-haired  angel  than  a 
woman,  and  Ruth  told  her  so.  Mrs.  Mathers 
watched  the  two  girls  arm  in  arm  come  down  the 
long  steps. 

"I  declare,"  said  she  to  the  lawyer,  who  was 
sitting  in  a  large  easy  chair,  ^^I  never  saw  two 
such  handsome  girls.  They  are  enough  to  make 
a  stir  anywhere.^' 

"Not  so  lovely  as  you,  my  love,"  cooed  the  big 
man.  "I  would  not  change  my  ducky  for  two  like 
them — that  is  two  apiece." 


A  CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  99 

"You  old  Mormon,"  latighed  the  wife;  "I 
shoHld  hope  not/' 

"We  are  ready,  you  see,"  said  Hilda,  shaking 
hands  with  Mr.  Mathers,  "to  meet  the  most 
capable  young  man  of  the  age/' 

Ruth  blushed,  and  then  the  doorbell  rang. 

The  room  in  which  Kuth  met  the  man  who 
would  afterward  figure  in  her  life  much  is  worth 
describing.  Mrs.  Mathers  was  a  lover  of  browns 
and  reds.  In  the  broad  light  of  the  sun  she  ad- 
mired the  soft  brown,  while  after  the  lighting  of 
the  gas,  a  deep  red  must  suffuse  the  room.  Hence, 
she  had  the  decorations  made  to  suit  the  time. 

The  morning  room,  where  each  took  a  break- 
fast to  his  fancy,  was  draped  in  heavy  light- 
brown  plush  in  winter  while  in  summer  a  gor- 
geous patterned  linen  hung  in  the  place  of  the 
heavier  drapery. 

Euth  loved  the  dark  room  in  the  evening,  and 
she  wondered  how  it  had  been  possible  for  any 
,one  person  to  plan  such  an  elaborate  home.  To- 
night she  stood  under  the  brilliant  chandelier, 
her  dark  hair  coiled  in  great  masses  upon  the 
ismall,  proud  head.    Into  the  dark  eyes  had  crept 


100  A   CHILD  OP   THE   SLUMS. 

an  expression  of  smothered  passion,  such  as  is 
felt  only  by  women.  Her  petite  form,  no  larger 
than  in  those  olden  days  when  she  ran  with  light- 
ning footsteps  to  the  wood  to  meet  her  lover,  was 
covered  with  a  lacy  drapery  which  no  man  could 
have  found  a  name  for  had  he  hunted  the  fashion 
magazines  for  a  year.  Mr,  Mathers  made  a  men- 
tal note  of  the  effect  of  the  dark-red  rose  clinging 
near  the  temple.  Then  his  eyes  wandered  from 
the  dark  little  beauty  to  the  splendid  creature  at 
her  side.  He  could  not  tell  which  was  the  lovelier. 
There  was  that  about  the  golden-haired  wife  of 
Tom  Brittle  that  stirred  every  heart  that  saw 
her.  Was  it  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair  in  the 
slanting  sunlight  by  day  ,or  the  red  from  the 
draperies  now  shining  in  the  gaslight?  It  was. 
neither,  so  thought  the  lawyer.  The  full  dark- 
blue  eyes,  marked  like  the  hidden  violets  in  the 
w^ood,  were  turned  full  upon  him,  and  the  man 
could  feel  the  same  spell  that  Tom  Brittle  had 
undergone  on  the  train  that  long  time  ago.  In 
the  depths  Mathers  could  see  sleeping  an  emotion 
such  as  few  women  possess.    And  a  dead  secret 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.  101 

i\as  there  also.     But  no  :]ujnd%eouldvHad  the 
riought  of  Hilda  Brittle.  - 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  outei*'  hall.  A  servant 
Y\  as  announcing  Mr.  Frank  Wentworth. 

Each  woman  in  the  room  turned  instinctively 
toward  the  newcomer. 

Ruth  allowed  her  eyes  to  rest  upon  the  hand- 
Borne  face  while  a  sickening  dread  crowded  all 
other  thoughts  from  her  mind.  There  was  not 
one  feature  jn  the  faultless  face  like  that  of  the 
Prank  Wentworth  she  had  known  and  lost.  But 
the  lawyer  had  risen  and  was  going  through  with 
the  introductions.  Another  in  the  room  was  of 
paler  countenance  than  the  girl  longing  for  her 
lover.  Hilda  Brittle  was  gazing  at  Wentworth 
with  an  expression  upon  her  face  as  if  some  ap- 
parition had  risen  from  the  grave. 

She  tried  to  draw  herself  together,  but  the  man 
had  her  hand  before  she  could  answer  his  polite, 
courteous  question.  Then  she  noted  that  he  re- 
membered her.  In  the  fair,  sweet  girl  whose  life 
he  had  ruined  there  had  risen  a  woman  of  such 
magnificence  that  the  new  heir  caught  his  breath. 
Something  of  the  old  passion  stirred  his  wicked 


102  A.  CHILD   OP  THE  SLUMS. 

heart  wi)ile  a  flame  of  love  leapt  into  the  dark- 
ened eyes. 

3Irs.  Mathers  welcomed  the  young  fellow  wit!^ 
sisterly  interest,  glad  for  the  ^ake  of  the  very  pale 
girl  that  he  had  returned  to.  • 

The  pleasantries  of  an  evening  where  all  felt  a 
little  restrained  passed  oflf  as  well  as  possible. 
Euth  could  say  but  little,  and  the  misery  depicted 
in  Hilda's  face  was  noticed  by  none  but  the 
man  himself.  He  seemed  to  take  a  fiendish  joy 
in  torturing,  for  much  of  his  conversation  was 
directed  toward  her.  But  who  will  not  give  him 
the  credit  of  a  feeling  better  than  that  of 
worrying  a  good  woman?  He  was  often 
thinking  of  those  past  days,  and  once  when  a  look 
of  desperation  came  into  the  pleading  blue  eyes: 
as  he  suavely  asked  her  a  personality  he  answered 
the  look  with  one  of  warning;,  and  for  a  time 
turned  his  attention  to  Ruth,  who  had  been  sit- 
ting demurely  listening.  She  had  nothing  to  say,  * 
and  wanted  less  to  do  with  this  handsome  man 
who  was  not  the  Frank  Wentworth  she  had 
known  and  lovedi  There  was  some  hideous  mis- 
take which  could  not  be  accounted  for.     Her 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  103 

uncle  said  that  he  had  plainly  shown  that  he  was 
the  Wentworth  who  was  heir  to  the  money.  Then 
there  must  be  two  Frank  Wentworths.  Once^ 
after  the  dinner  was  finished,  the  new  heir 
stooped  to  pick  a  fallen  match  from  the  floor.  * 
Something  so  familiar  in  the  position  brought 
Ruth  from  the  present  into  the  past.  Again  she 
stood  before  the  open  window,  watching  the  wind 
lash  the  pine  branches  in  its  fury.  Again  her 
eyes  were  upon  the  wood.  She  thought  she  saw 
the  same  two  men,  and  this  stooping  stranger 
melted  before  her  eyes  into  the  creeping  man  who 
was  following  her  beloved.  Would  that  trick  of 
her  fancy  never  leave  her  mind?  Was  she  so 
closely  allied  with  the  occult  that  she  could  look 
into  the  future?  More  vividly  did  the  idea  take 
root  that  her  lover  was  living,  and  that  some  time 
lie  would  come  to  her,  and  that  this  handsome 
{Stranger  so  suavely  putting  the  burnt  match  in 
the  receiver  would  figure  largely  in  it. 

Hilda  Brittle  excused  herself  and  went  to 
Euth's  room.  The  moment  the  door  closed  upon 
her  she  threw  herself  down  upon  the  bed.  *^He 
has  returned  !*'  sobbed  she,  "and  my  happiness  is 


104  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

€nded.  It  seemed  that  I  ought  to  have  shrieked 
out  his  duplicity  to  those  dear  people,  but  I  could 
uof  So  the  tearful  soliloquy  went  on  until  her 
grief  was  spent.  What  should  she  do  and  where 
go?  Hilda  knew  that  her  husband  was  too  up- 
right to  countenance  any  such  a  thing.  And  then 
she,  too,  would  be  too  noble  to  live  with  a  man 
to  whom  she  was  not  married.  Hilda  wondered 
if  the  time  would  come  that  she  could  ask  the 
man  what  he  had  meant  by  deceiving  her  with  a 
false  report  of  his  death.  Her  thoughts  went  to 
that  day  upon  the  train  when  she  had  first  met 
her  dear  husband.  She  tossed  the  warm,  damp 
hair  from  her  hot  brow.  It  seemed  that  the  day 
would  never  end.  Euth  she  did  not  want  to  see 
for  a  time,  so  that  she  could  regain  her  compo- 
sure. From  below  she  could  hear  the  prelude  of 
a  song,  the  familiar  strains  of  which  almost  drove 
her  mad.  She  had  heard  the  voice  now  rising  and 
falling  in  passionate  strains  singing  the  same 
songs  years  ago  when  she  had  been  a  trusting 
girl.  And  had  she  not  played  for  him  to  sing? 
Hilda's  heart  seemed  about  to  break.  Up  in  the 
beautiful  home  she  could  see  the  man  she  loved 


A  CHILD   OP  THE  SLUMS.  105 

waiting  with  impatience  her  return.  Ah,  and 
she  loved  him  as  he  had  never  been  loved  before ! 
As  the  beautiful  voice  came  to  her  from  below 
Hilda  covered  her  ears  that  the  sound  might  be 
shut  out.  She  had  grown  to  hate  the  man,  Eis- 
ing  from  her  bed  with  nervous  tremor  she  took  a 
sudden  resolution.  She  would  see  and  speak  with 
him.  That  would  be  the  only  feasible  way  to  find 
the  history  that  she  might  be  able  to  tell  her 
husband  why  she  had  married  him  when  the 
father  of  the  little  lost  child  was  still  living. 


106  A   CHILD   OP   THE  SLUMSL 


CHAPTER  VIL 

With  this  determination  Hilda  arranged  her 
toilet  again.    She  called  the  maid,  and  the  soft 
tresses  which  were  the  pride  of  a  certain  lo\ing^ 
man  whom  she  knew,  were  again  coiled  in  theii 
place. 

Then  Hilda,  despite  the  sign  of  tears  upon  her 
face,  went  into  the  room  below  and  waited  while 
the  voice  finished  the  singing. 

The  looked-for  opportunity  came  when  Iviitb 
complained  of  a  severe  headache  and  asked  to  be 
excused.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mathers  were  in  one  of 
their  usual  disputes,  and  Hilda,  with  a  motion 
of  her  white  hand,  beckoned  to  the  mc7in  that  he 
follow  her  into  the  conservatory. 

Wentworth,  with  the  nonchalance  of  a  king,, 
sauntered  along,  well  knowing  the  confusion 
of  his  companion.  He  knew  that  perfect  control 
of  one's  emotion  carried  the  day  always. 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  107 

Hilda  proceeded  to  a  fountain's  side  and  sank 
upon  the  gilded  bench.  The  man  took  a  seat  in 
silence. 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke,  the  woman  bend* 
ing  over  and  picking  up  a  handful  of  sparkling 
water,  letting  it  fall  drop  by  drop  from  between 
her  fingers, 

^^So  you  are  here,  a  friend  in  the  house  of 
Mathers,  are  you,  and  a  more  than  friend  to  the 
girl?'^ 

This  was  his  greeting,  and  the  woman  was  not 
sorry,  although  she  thought  she  saw  the  same 
passionate  gleam  in  his  eyes,  as  she  again  picked 
up  more  water. 

"You  are  married  again,"  said  he;  "so  the  little 
maid  tells  me.'' 

"Yes." 

"And  you  are  happy?" 

"More  so  than  at  any  other  time  in  my  life.  I 
love  my  husband  better  than  my  life." 

"Complimentary  to  me,  isn't  it?" 

The  man  was  one  of  those  individuals  who 
could  only  see  pleasure  in  other  people's  unhap- 
piness.    If  Hilda  had  told  him  that  she  was  un- 


108  A   CHILD  OP   THE   SLUMS. 

liappy,  that  her  domestic  relations  with  the  rich 
man  whom  she  had  married  were  unpleasant,  he 
would  have  been  content.  How  coldly  the  blue 
eyes  looked  upon  him !  He  was  willing  always  to 
make  a  conquest  of  .a  beautiful  woman,  and  cer- 
tainly this  little  former  love  of  his  was  very 
beautiful. 

"You  need  not  look  so  alarmed ;  I  am  not  anxi- 
ous to  let  our  relations  be  known.  It  will  not 
hurt  your  life  any,  but  you  need  not  be  so  cold  to 
me/' 

"You  will  not  put  your  hands  upon  me/'  said 
the  woman,  in  an  undertone  so  intense  that  the 
man  withdrew  his  long,  white  fingers  from  her 
white  flesh. 

"And  I  told  you  not  to  be  so  distant.  You 
Icnow  why  I  have  come  here,  and  that  I  am  not 
the  man  in  the  position  I  fill.  You  are  the  only 
living  person  knowing  it." 

"And  you  think  I  shall  allow  you  to  step  into  a 
dead  man's  shoes  and  usurp  a  position  wrong- 
fully?" 

"You  will  do  as  I  say,"  said  the  man,  mutter- 
ing it  more  than  speaking  in  a  decided  tone. 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  10^ 

"Why  did  you  allow  me  to  think  that  you  were 
dead?" 

"It  suited  my  purpose,  just  then.  What  did 
you  do  with  the  child?" 

Hilda  told  the  plaintive  story  with  many  tear; 
and  sobs,    x^ifter  all,  this  man  held  a  peculiar  pc 
sition,  which  no  other  living  one  could  hold.  Was 
he  not  the  father  of  her  boy,  whether  the  child' 
were  dead  or  living? 

Wentworth,  as  he  must  be  called,  slipped  his 
arm  about  the  waist  of  the  unhappy  woman,  but 
somehow  out  of  the  crimson  light  which  sur- 
rounded them  she  could  see  a  pair  of  pleading 
grey  eyes,  hear  a  voice  whisper  in  her  ear  that 
the  love  of  a  pure,  good  man  awaited  her.  She 
drew  herself  from  the  embrace  and  sat  up  very 
straight.  Her  eyes  sparkled  through  the  tears, 
and  she  nervously  dried  her  finger  upon  a  lace 
handkerchief. 

Wentworth  muttered  an  oath.  He  would  have 
liked  nothing  better  than  to  have  this  splendid 
creature  throw  herself  into  one  of  those  old  dis- 
plays of  frenzy  and  passion  that  he  so  well  re» 


110  A   CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

membered.  But  she  was  sitting  as  prim  as  a 
Quaker,  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

^^Then  yon  do  not  know  whether  the  little  fel- 
low is  dead  or  not?^^  he  felt  compelled  to  say.  He 
did  not  want  to  get  Hilda  into  a  great  temper, 
for  there  was  no  telling  what  she  would  do. 

"No.'' 

"And  you  have  searched  for  him?'' 

"Everywhere." 

"Then  I  would  say  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do 
is  to  forget  that  you  were  ever  a  mother  and  be 
happy." 

"I  shall  never  be  that  again,  for  my  husband 
would  not  live  with  me  were  he  to  know  that  I 
had  another  husband  living." 

"You  have  not,"  fell  from  the  full,  red  lips  of 
the  man. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Hilda. 

^That  you  were  never  my  wife,  as  you  sup- 
>posed." 

Hilda  Brittle  drew  a  long  breath.  For  a  mo- 
ment a  great  wave  of  thankfulness  swept  over  her. 
She  was  then,  no  matter  what  the  past  had  been, 
the  wife  of  her  beloved.    He  had  told  her  never 


A   CHILD  OF  THB  SLUMS.  HI 

to  mention  the  old  days  of  her  folly  again  to  him. 
The  only  safe,  sacred  subject  which  eacji  one  felt 
<!ould  always  be  mentioned  was  the  little  golden- 
haired  boy,  with  his  father's  dark  eyes. 

Suddenly  there  rushed  over  her  a  feeling  of 
disgust.  She  remembered  the  ceremony  so  well 
upon  that  winter  night.  The  solemn  minister, 
with  his  long  gown,  the  sober  witnesses  and  the 
falling  shadows. 

^^How  dare  you  say  this  to  me?"  gasped  she. 
^^I  hate  you  for  the  deception.'' 

^^I  should  think  you  would  feel  very  much  obli- 
gated to  me,"  was  the  flippant  answer,  as  the  man 
placed  his  fingers  in  the  water  and  scattered  a 
;  *  w  bright  drops  upon  a  tall  fern  overhanging  the 
fountain. 

'*!,  by  my  duplicity,  made  it  possible  for  you 
to  be  a  wife,  and  yet  keep  your  husband  ignorant 
of  the  fact  that  you  are  not  just  what  you  seem." 

More  and  more  did  the  hatred  swell  in  the 

white  bosom.     How  she  hated  this  calm,  cruel 

miin,  as  he  sat  talking  to  her  about  the  best  im- 

'  pulses  of  her  life  and  chiding  her  for  weeping 

ovGr  a  blasted  character,  and  a  little  lost  child. 


112  A   CHILD  OP  THE   SLUMS. 

^^Hush/'  commanded  she;  "I  hate  you  more 
than  all  the  world." 

He  saw  that  there  was  no  use  to  try  force  y^ltli 
her,  so  he  silently  sent  the  drops  of  water  agalD 
upon  the  fern. 

"How  did  you  accomplish  such  a  thing?"  said 
she,  lifting  her  heavy  eyes  to  his  face. 

"Friends  who  are  always  willing  to  be  paid  for 
such  services  as  that."  He  said  this  as  if  he  were 
reciting  a  verse  or  a  childish  fairy  story. 

"Did  you  pay  that  clergyman  to  perform  a 
mock  marriage?"  asked  the  trembling  lips. 

"He  was  but  a  poor  devil  in  hard  luck,  with 
two  companions  who  were  willing  to  do  anything 
I  asked  them  for  five  dollars." 

Hilda's  golden  head  sank  upon  her  breast.  The 
glint  of  the  red  light  sparkled  in  the  water  and 
shone  through  the  yellow  hair.  The  man  never 
felt  a  keener  impulse  in  his  life  to  take  a  woman 
in  his  arms. 

"How  can  you  stand  there  and  tell  me  of  my 
dishonor?"  and  saying  this  a  thought  so  vitally 
awful  came  into  her  mind  that  a  sharp  cry  wa^ 
wrung  from  her  lips. 


A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS.  Hat 

She  could  see  the  two  men  now  as  they  signe<i 
their  names  upon  a  little  book  in  the  church.  She 
could  hear  the  solemn  tones  of  the  tall  man  a^  Ite 
pronounced  her  the  wife  of  him  before  her.  Sh^  , 
supposed  that  there  had  been  much  glee  OT^r  her 
innocenc^e  afterward,  and  it  was  this  that  mada 
her  heart  beat  with  agony. 

"You  have  but  to  keep  still,'^  said  the  maup^ 
"and  that  precious  husband  of  yours  will  never 
be  the  wiser." 

"Nevertheless,  I  shall  tell  him/'  she  said,  witfe 
dogged  determination. 

"I  suppose  that  means  that  you  will  exposes 
me?''  asked  Wentworth,  rising. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  mean?"  was  the  answerj. 
while  the  sweet  voice  had  a  death-like  intonatiooi 
in  it. 

"It  would  be  well  for  you  to  keep  silent/'' 
warned  the  man.  "It  can  do  you  no  good  to  tell 
the  exact  situation.  And  the  man  is  dead,  yoii 
know." 

"If  I  knew  that  he  were  dead,"  whispered 
Hilda.  "I  cannot  bear  to  think  you  are  fooling: 
a  good  girl  and  taking  the  place  of  a  living  man-'* 


lU  A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 

^•You  need  not  worry  about  that  little  maid  iir 
there/'  and  Wentworth  waved  his  hand  toward 
the  room  where  they  could  hear  voices,  first  angry^ 
and  then  loving.  Hilda  knew  that  the  lawyer 
and  his  wife  were  having  an  altercation. 

^^I  am  not  the  man  she  wants  to  marry/'  went 
on  Hilda's  companion,  "but  I  can  win  her  if  she 
does  not  know  about  us.  It  will  only  make  a 
bad  bargain  worse  to  tell  your  husband  about 
this  matter.    Does  he  know  about  the  child?" 

Too  well  he  knew  about  the  little  boy.  She 
could  hear  the  deep  tones,  with  satisfaction  in 
them,  tell  her  that  he  was  so  glad  that  no  dis- 
honor was  attached  to  her  name. 

She  was  so  glad  at  that  time,  too,  but  now  it 
was  different.  She  would  have  to  go  back  and  put 
her  arms  about  his  neck  and  tell  her  beloved  the 
awful  story.  All  about  how  the  little  baby  lad 
was  not  in  the  world  rightfully;  how  she  had 
been  duped  and  destroyed.  There  was  some  con- 
solation about  the  thought  that  she  had  not 
known.  Would  he  send  her  from  him?  Hilda 
could  hear  the  intonation  of  the  voices  on  the 


A   CHILD   OF  THE   SLUMS.  115 

inside,  also  the  man  was  again  speaking.  She 
drew  herself  together  and  tried  to  listen. 

"I  hope  to  win  Euth  Ferris  for  my  wife.  It 
need  not  hurt  you  in  any  way,  but  it  is  doubtful 
^  if  I  ever  love  any  one  as  I  did  you,  Rilda.^' 

"Hush !"  gasped  Hilda.  "I  do  not  want  to  hear 
the  word  from  your  lips.  You  allowed  my  inno- 
cent baby  to  come  into  the  world  without  a  name } 
there  is  nothing  you  would  not  do.  I  love  that 
little  girl  there  in  that  large  house,  weeping  out 
her  heart  for  a  dead  lover,  too  well  for  you  to 
impose  yourself  upon  her." 

"Then  if  she  refuses  me,  Prank  Wentworth,  I 
am  to  have  the  fortune,  and  if  I  have  that  I  can 
live  without  the  girl.'^ 

"Then  that  is  what  you  had  better  do,'^  said 
Hilda,  "for  I  do  not  believe  I  can  stand  by  and  see 
you  marry  her.'^ 

"How  have  you  fooled  them  so  effectually?''' 
asked  Hilda  after  a  time,  with  set  teeth. 

"I  had  the  papers  of  a  certain  dead  man,'^  er- 
i  plained  her  companion.  "They  were  all  that  I 
^  needed.'' 

Hilda  heard  Ruth's  voice  calling  her,  and  with. 


IIQ  A    CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS. 

scant  courtesy  she  rose  and  Wentworth  walked: 
by  her  side,  in  through  the  door  and  out  into  the 
hall.  It  cannot  but  be  admitted  that  with  the 
strong  personality  of  the  woman  he  felt  some- 
thing of  the  old-time  emotion  stirring  his  blood. 
He  watched  her  as  she  gracefully  ascended  the 
stairs  and  passed  from  his  sight. 

^^She  is  certainly  charming/^  muttered  he; 
^^much  more  so  than  my  little  fawn,  Ruth,  but 
she  has  the  money,  and  that  is  what  you  are  play- 
ing for  how,  Mr.  Wentworth." 

Mrs.  Mathers  appeared  at  the  door,  and  the 
lawyer,  with  beaming  countenance,  was  at  her 
heels.  They  were  constantly  together,  even 
though  they  quarreled  by  day  and  night. 

"You  are  going?''  said  the  lady  of  the  house^ 
looking  about  for  the  girls.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say  those  naughty  children  have  run  away  and 
left  you  alone?" 

"That  is  nothing,  let  me  assure  you,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Mathers,"  said  the  man.  "I  have  spent  a 
delightful  evening,  and  I  consider  myself  very 
fortunate." 

The  lawyer,  looking  over  his  wife's  shoulder^^ 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  H'Jf 

thought  SO  too.  Could  any  man  ask  for  a  better 
future  than  this? — a  beautiful  girl  and  a  big  for- 
tune. The  new  heir  walked  along  with  a  very- 
satisfied  mind.  He  had  no  idea  that  Hilda  would 
tell  this  handsome  husband  of  hers  about  that 
girlish  escapade  of  which  the  wife  knew  nothing 
until  that  night. 

The  two  girls  were  in  each  other's  arms.  Ruth* 
thought  Hilda  was  weeping  over  her  disappoint- 
ment. But  little  did  the  girl  realize  the  heart- 
ache of  her  beautiful  friend. 

Hilda  did  not  feel  that  she  was  called  upon  to 
tell  her  story  now,  so  she  listened  while  Ruth 
lamented  her  terrible  misfortune. 

"I  cannot  see  how  the  mistake  was  made,"  said 
she,  "for  I  always  supposed  Frank's  uncle  and 
mine  were  the  best  of  friends.  That  there  should 
be  two  Frank  Wentworths  is  most  improbable.'^ 

Hilda  said  nothing,  brushing  back  the  curls 
from  the  white  brow. 

"I  would  not  give  up  the  hope  of  seeing  your 
darling,"  she  at  last  found  voice  to  say.  "You 
know  that  fate  has  a  kindly  future  in  store." 


118  A   CHILD   OF  THE   SLUMS. 

She  groaned  inwardly  as  she  said  this,  think- 
ing of  the  heart-husband  who  had  been  so  loving 
to  her,  wondering  if  he  would  forgive  a  sin  which 
she  had  really  not  committed. 

She  pressed  the  beautiful  face  of  her  friend 
close  to  hers.  All  this  trouble  seemed  only  U^ 
draw  them  nearer  together. 

^^I  know  one  thing,"  and  Ruth,  with  a  snap  of 
her  pretty  white  teeth  sat  up  and  drew  herself 
from  the  surrounding  arms.  "I  know  one  thing 
— I  will  never  marry  that  man  as  long  as  there 
is  life  in  my  body.'' 

Hilda  took  a  long  breath.  This  was  just  what 
she  wanted  to  hear.  As  long  as  Kuth  held  to  this 
resolution  she  was  safe  and  would  not  make  any 
disclosures  to  th^  o^lrl.  But  she  feit  that  she 
loved  the  little  maid  too  well  to  allow  her  to 
marry  a  rogue  and  a  falsifier. 

The  two  girls  talked  long  during  the  night. 
Hilda  decided  that  she  would  go  home  in  the 
morning.  Ruth  demurred,  but  when  the  woman 
promised  that  she  would  soon  return  she  reluct- 
antly allowed  her  to  pack  her  belongings  and 
Tent  to  the  train  with  her. 


A   CHILD  OF   THE  SLUMS.  119 

The  Mathers  were  shocked  when  Ruth  dia- 
closed  the  fact  that  the  new  heir  was  not  the  man 
she  loved.  This  was  all  she  would  say,  but  Mrs, 
Mathers  kept  returning  to  the  subject,  sayiii;; 
that  she  hoped  the  girl  would  think  twice  bef^s^i-^.* 
she  allowed  a  wealthy  and  handsome  young  fel- 
low to  slip  between  her  fingers. 

Hilda  Brittle  settled  back  in  her  seat  with  the 
greatest  mixture  of  emotions  she  had  ever  experi- 
enced.  As  the  train  sped  on  into  the  hills  she 
shed  many  bitter  tears  at  the  shape  her  life  had 
taken  since  leaving  home.  Would  the  large- 
hearted  man  forgive  her  and  take  her  to  his 
breast  again?  Somehow  it  seemed  to  the  girl 
that  now  she  had  once  known  his  love  she  could 
not  live  without  him.  He  had  grown  infinitely 
dearer  since  the  day  he  told  her  not  to  think  of 
the  past;  that  he  loved  her  for  herself  alone. 

"If  he  will  but  take  a  broad  view  of  the  mat- 
ter,'^  said  she  to   herself,  with  her  face  in  her 
hands;  "if  he  would  but  see  that  I  am  not  any 
more  to  blame  than  I  was  before.    But  men  al 
way  think  a  woman  ought  to  know  everything.- -' 

Such  thoughts  as  these  burned  their  way  into 


120  A  CHILD  OP  THE   SLUMS. 

the  girPs  heart.  What  was  the  use  of  being  beau- 
tiful if  she  could  not  have  her  heart's  desire? 
M^hat  would  money  be,  without  Tom? 

^i^e  night  drew  on  and  still  the  train  thun- 
dered tlirough  the  hills.  Still  the  woman  kept 
iier  face  buried  in  her  hands,  or  pressed  against 
the  window-pane. 

She  had  left  home  but  a  few  hours  ago  with 
only  a  ieeling  of  joy  for  Euth. 

She  was  returning  only  to  leave  it  again. 

As  the  engine  steamed  its  way  to  the  depot 
Hilda  could  see  the  lights  from  her  home.  The 
dear  little  red  attic  light  was  burning  as  of  old. 
She  could  see  the  figures  of  the  servants  as  they 
passed  to  and  fro  in  front  of  the  windows.  She 
cenld  even  discern  with  her  tear-stained  eyes  a 
iittle  black  footman  as  he  appeared  upon  the 
;p©rch  and  looked  through  the  darkness  at  the 
train  as  it  pulled  into  the  station.  Of  course, 
Tom  w^ould  be  there  waiting  for  her.  He  always 
was,  especially  when  she  dispatched  him  in  the 
morning  that  she  was  coming.  Hilda  remem- 
i^;^red  the  feeling  of  trust  that  surged  into  her 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.  121 

heart  as  she  signed  her  name  to  the  blank,  and 
knew  that  even  in  spite  of  the  man  masquerading 
at  the  Mathers  she  was  Hilda  Brittle. 

She  would  rather  be  the  discarded  wife  of  the 
one  than  to  be  ever  with  Gerson  again.  Never 
had  she  felt  such  a  loathing  for  any  human  be- 
ing !  For  one  thing  she  was  thankful.  Ruth  had 
sworn  to  her  that  she  would  never  marry  that 
man.  He  could  have  the  money,  for  all  either 
one  of  them  cared,  but  to  link  that  sweet  life  with 
such  a  one  would  be  more  than  Hilda  could  bear. 

She  was  peering  out  of  the  window,  her  eyes 
hot  with  tears.  Through  the  mist  which  had  set- 
tled over  the  valley  she  could  see  the  porters  hur- 
rying to  their  duties.  Hilda  wondered  if  each 
one  had  a  wife  at  home  as  beautiful  as  she,  and  if 
there  were  any  woman  in  the  world  so  absolutely 
miserable. 

There  was  Tom,  she  could  see  him.  He  was 
only  waiting  for  the  train  to  stop  to  spring  to  the 
platform  and  clasp  her  in  his  arms.  She  felt  the 
big  form  close  to  hers,  felt  the  hot  breath  breath- 
ing upon  her  lips  and  heard  Tom  Brittle  call  her 
his  love,  his  wife  and  his  darling. 


128  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Hilda  did  not  say  much  to  her  husband  as  he 
led  her  to  the  carriage  and  they  drove  home.  She 
rested  her  head  against  the  big,  protecting  arm 
and  wept  so  silently  that  he  did  not  discover  it 
until  he  was  lifting  her  from  the  vehicle. 

"Are  you  so  glad  to  get  back,  my  pretty,^'  whis- 
pered he,  "that  the  bright  tears  fall  from  these 
beautiful  eyes?'' 

Brittle  lifted  the  face  to  his  and  kissed  it.  How 
he  had  grown  to  love  that  beautiful,  bright 
woman  since  she  had  filled  his  home  with  sun- 
shine ! 

Through  the  dinner  hour  Hilda's  eyes  sought 
Tom's,  making  a  silent  plea  for  her  future.  But 
the  big  fellow  did  not  realize  that  anything  un- 
usual was  happening  or  had  happened,  so  he  told 
his  wife  all  the  things  which  had  occurred  since 
her  going  away. 


A   CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.  123 

Hilda  resolved  that  she  would  tell  the  story 
before  going  to  bed  for  the  night.  The  loving 
ears  should  hear,  and  the  dear  heart  have  a 
t?hance  to  forgive  her  if  it  so  desired.  The  woman 
felt  that  she  could  not  go  through  the  dark  night 
framing  an  explanation. 

Tom  offered  her  assistance  by  asking  if  she  did 
not  want  to  go  with  him  to  their  quiet  room, 
where  they  could  converse  away  from  the  ears  of 
the  servants. 

Hilda  allowed  her  weight  to  linger  against  the 
large  arms  after  they  had  reached  the  landing. 
Would  she  ever  be  in  just  that  position  again? 
And  how  should  she  tell  him  all  that  was  in  ber 
heart? 

The  low  flame  of  the  grate  filled  the  room  \Ath 
a  red  glow.  Tom  made  a  movement  to  light  Uie 
gas,  but  Hilda  stopped  him,  saying  that  she 
wanted  to  kneel  at  his  feet,  that  she  had  some- 
thing to  tell  him. 

Together  they  sat  down.  Tom  Brittle  had  never 
seen  such  a  look  of  concern  upon  the  dear  face 
he  loved  so  devotedly.  He  knew  that  something 
was  coming,  but  what? 


124  A  CHILD  OP  THE   SLUMS. 

Hilda  waited  and  looked  into  the  little  red 
flame.    She  was  pondering  on  how  to  begin. 

^^I  do  not  know  how  to  begin,"  sobbed  she,  put- 
ting her  head  on  the  large  knee. 

^^Jiist  start,"  gravely  answered  her  husband. 
**I  v/ant  my  wife  not  to  fear  me.'' 

But  he  did  not  know  what  was  coming.  He 
waited  and  the  little  flame  burned  itself  out  and 
died  away. 

Presently  Hilda  leaned  over  and  took  the  brass 
poker  and  stirred  it  again  into  life.  Then  she 
took  the  large,  white  hand  lovingly  in  hers. 

"Sweetheart,"  began  she,  weeping  over  the  long 
fingers,"if  that  which  I  tell  you  hurts  your  heart 
will  you  try  in  the  bigness  of  it  to  forgive  my 
part  in  it?  I  hope  you  will  take  me  to  your  dear 
heart,  as  you  have  always  done." 

"Is  it  something  which  will  hurt  our  love, 
Hilda?" 

The  tones  were  so  intense  and  deep  that  Hilda 
uttered  a  little  cry.  , 

"Please,  before  I  commence,  tell  me  that  you 
will  pardon — oh,  Tom,  I  cannot  bear  it." 

Tom's   face   had   grown    so    white,    his    lip^i 


A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS.  125 

trembling  until  Hilda  thought  he  was  going  to 
cry. 

^^Something  has  happened  to  you  since  you 
have  been  away — something  I  ought  to  know?" 

The  man  had  never  imagined  anything  so  bad 
as  was  now  in  his  mind.  Could  she  have  forgot- 
ten him  while  from  home?  Seriously  he  began  to 
speak :  "Hilda,  darling,  do  not  keep  me  in  sus- 
pense.   I  love  you,  and  this  you  know." 

The  assurance  was  just  what  the  girl  needed. 
If  his  love  were  only  large  enough  to  overlook  a 
gruesome  past! 

"Do  you  remember,  Tom,"  she  began,  moving 
the  little  coals  again  with  the  lifter,  "the  story  1 
told  you  about  the  baby  and  how  I  lost  him?" 

"Of  course." 

"And  how  I  married  his  father  in  the  little 
church  covered  with  ivy?" 

*^Yes." 

*^I  have  seen  the  man  again;  he  is  not  dead." 

Hilda  felt  the  tightening  of  the  muscles  and 
knew  that  the  shot  had  told,  but  he  waited  for 
her  to  proceed. 

But  again  she  stopped  until  the  flame  was  no 


126  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

more.  But  the  darkness  seemed  oppressiTe  and 
she  arose  and  taking  a  match  from  the  shelf 
lighted  the  brilliant  overhanging  chandelier. 

Tom  Brittle  had  not  spoken,  and  waited  for 
'  her  to  seat  herself  again  at  his  knee.  The  thought 
flashed  through  his  mind  that  he  had  never  seen 
so  graceful  a  woman,  but  did  the  fair  body  be- 
long to  him? 

'^Then  you  are  not  my  wife?"  he  said,  lifting 
the  eyes  to  his.  "I  cannot  say  tnat  Hilda  Brittle 
is  my  little  wife  any  more*-'^ 

The  blue  eyes  pierced  through  the  tears  into 
the  glint  of  the  grey. 

Hilda  sprang  "*nto  the  longing  arms  held  out 
toward  her. 

^^Oh,  yes,  you  can,  dear,''  sobbed  she.  "I  was 
not  married  to  him,  so  he  says." 

"Then  there  was  no  ceremony,  as  you  told  me?" 

"Yes,  but  a  dishonorable  one." 

Hilda  started  at  the  beginning  and  told  the 
story  of  how  she  and  Ruth  had  dressed  for  the 
meeting  of  the  heir,  Wentworth,  and  she,  his 
wife,  Hilda,  found  the  betrayer  of  her  girlhood. 
Tbe  red  lips  were  raised  pleadingly  toward  the 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  127 

large,  dark  head  above  her,  but  Tom  Brittle  did 
not  move.  Hilda  only  dropped  her  face  upon  the 
knee  which  had  so  long  been  her  place. 

She  had  decided  to  make  a  hard  fight  for  the 
man  whom  she  loved. 

He  made  no  stir,  and  Hilda  would  have 
thought  him  sleeping  had  it  not  been  for  the 
story  she  had  told  him. 

^^Tom,"  began  she,  after  an  agonizing  moment, 
^n^  on't  you  speak  to  me?  There  was  dishonor, 
but  it  was  not  my  faulf 

Tlie  strong  arms  opened  and  the  golden  head 
Bgain  rested  upon  the  broad  breast  that  had  shel- 
tered  her  from  many  a  storm. 

'vim  I  to  stay  with  you,  my  beloved?^'  queried! 
she,  with  trembling. 

'^I  am  your  husband,''  answered  the  deep,  pas- 
sionate voice.  "I  was  but  thinking  how  terrible 
it  would  have  been  but  for  that  man's  perfidy. 
Kemember,  Hilda,  I  am  not  upholding  crime," 
said  Tom,  after  the  story  had  been  told,  "and  it 
was  a  crime  toward  you,  but  the  silver  lining  to 
my  darling's  cloud  now  is  that  she  is  mine,  mine^ 
,  mine !" 


128  A   CHILD   OF  THE   SLUMS. 

Long  after  Tom  had  slept,  Hilda  lay  with  sir: 
iiig  heart.  The  old  smart  of  her  trouble  had  dis- 
iipi)eared,  sent  into  the  shadows  of  the  past  by 
her  good  husband.  Had  he  not  told  her  to  forget 
i  (;  now,  and  if  ever  she  should  be  troubled  in  any 
^yaJ  with  thoughts  or  the  presence  of  the  man  she 
was  to  come  to  Tom.  This  would  be  easy,  for  had 
he  not  forgiven  all,  and  she  was  so  happy. 

Ruth  told  Mrs.  Mathers  not  to  count  upon  a 
wedding  with  her  as  the  bride,  as  she  would  not 
marry  the  new  heir.  He  was  not  the  man  she 
loved  and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 

"But  you  say,  yourself,  dear,"  said  she,  "that 
he  looks  like  Frank." 

"That  may  be  true,  but  he  is  not  Frank,  and  I 
am  not  going  to  marry  him." 

Mrs.  Mathers  always  noticed  that  if  the  pearly 
teeth  came  together  with  a  snap  then  she  could  ! 
make  up  her  mind  Ruth  meant  to  have  her  own 
way. 

Gerson  came  every  day.  He  shadowed  the  girFs 
footsteps ;  there  would  be  no  losing  her  if  he  had 
power  left  to  charm. 


A  CHILD  OP   THE   SLUMS.  139 

Evening  after  evening  she  played  for  him  to 
sing,  and  each  time  wished  it  might  be  the  last. 
Hilda  had  refused  an  itivitation  to  come  down 
right  away  and  Ruth  felt  lonely. 

One  evening  the  girl  sat  in  the  same  spot  where 
Gerson  had  told  Hilda  that  he  had  not  married 
her  in  the  little  ivy-covered  church. 

He,  under  the  name  of  Frank  Wentworth,  was 
now  trying  to  lay  siege  to  the  heart  of  Butli 
Ferris. 

"I  have  loved  you  since  the  time  I  first  rested 
my  eyes  upon  you,  Ruth,"  he  pleaded.  "I  will 
be  very  tender  with  you;  there  shall  not  be  one 
wish  of  yours  left  ungranted.'^ 

"But  you  understand,'^  faltered  Ruth,  "that 
I  love  another  man.    He  is  to  me  the  only  one.^^ 

"What  if  I  should  prove  to  you  that  this  other 
Frank  Wentworth  is  dead  and  buried?'^ 

"Then  I  should  hate  the  messenger  that 
brought  to  me  such  tidings." 

The  man  bit  his  lip  until  it  whitened  under  the 
pressure. 

"I  am  not  to  blame  for  his  death,"  he  replied, 
in  a  low  tone.    "You  are  hard  upon  a  fellow." 


130  A   CHILD   OP  THE   SLUMS. 

Ivuth,  ever  tender-hearted,  caught  the  extended 
hand  in  hers. 

**Mr.  Wentworth/'  said  she,  "do  not  misunder- 
^Jtand  me.  I  do  not  wish  to  do  you  an  injustice, 
l)ut  J  am  not  responsible  for  the  dictates  of  my 
heart.  I  would  not  place  in  your  life  a  woman 
who  is  loving  another  man,  be  he  living  or  dead." 
Euth's  companion  tossed  his  head  defiantly.  He 
would  win  this  girl,  if  she  could  love  with  such 
untiring  fervor. 

"You  have  made  me  love  you,  my  sweetheart/^ 
said  he,  trying  another  tactic,  but  the  girl  moved 
from  his  encircling  arm. 

'^I  do  not  wish  for  your  caresses,"  said  she. 

Mrs.  Mathers,  in  a  piece  of  advice  which  she 
had  previously  given  the  newcomer,  said  that  a 
girl's  heart  was  filled  with  wrinkles,  and  when 
one  wrinkle  proved  unsatisfactory,  another 
v'ould  come  to  cover  it  up  and  the  old  love  would 
he  Iniried.  But  poor  Wentworth,  desiring  with 
all  his  heart  the  girl  who  was  sitting  beside  him, 
tlioiight  that  her  heart  must  be  of  different 
calibre. 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  131 

Hilda  Brittle  could  not  get  out  of  lier  mind  the 
golden-haired  child  she  had  seen  selling  jSowers 
s^md  papers.  She  had  not  mentioned  him  to  Tom 
for  fear  that  he  would  think  her  whimsical.  But 
oui}  morning  when  her  husband  had  gone  to  Bnf- 
i'^ilo  siie  hurriedly  put  on  her  garments  and  took 
ilic  train  for  New  York. 

'Not  letting  her  friends  know  anything  about 
tt,  she  went  directly  toward  the  slums.  The  Bow- 
ery looked  the  same,  and  Hilda  recognized  the 
^ame  little  dirty  children  who  had  passed  and 
repassed  that  day  she  was  speaking  to  the  boy. 

She  ordered  the  cab  to  drive  up  and  down,  and 
kept  her  eyes  strained  upon  the  children  that 
passed. 

It  seemed  an  eternity  before  she  heard  a  great 
-^vhoop  and  a  string  of  children  came  tearing 
down  the  street.  In  the  center  of  the  gang  was 
the  little  golden-haired  boy.  His  face  was  plas- 
tered with  candy,  his  legs  bare  and  dirty,  but 
Hilda  did  not  care.    She  wanted  to  talk  to  him 

An  old  woman  with  but  few  teeth  and  with 
^i^:I3^3  of  dissipation,  ran  out  of  a  house  near-by. 


132  A   CHILD   OP  THE  SLUMS. 

^^Midge!''  screamed  she,  with  shaking  fist,  ^Vill 
you  come  here?    I  wants  youse." 

Hilda  saw  the  boy  drop  down  among  the  chil- 
dren, hiding  from  the  terrible  creature. 

^'Where  in  de  devil  is  dat  kid?"  shouted  the 
woman,  as  she  came  rushing  on  toward  the  dirty 
bunch  of  urchins. 

"He  ain't  here,  mum,''  said  an  older  child,, 
pushing  back  toward  Midge,  for  since  the  boy  had 
asserted  himself  and  insisted  upon  the  trousers 
due  his  dignity  and  years,  the  little  fellow  had 
been  proclaimed  King  of  the  Bowery. 

But  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  old  hag  were  as  edged 
as  her  teeth.  She  saw  a  golden  gleam,  and,  stoop- 
ing down,  picked  the  child  out  from  among  the 
rest  by  his  curls.  The  roar  that  went  up  from 
the  red  lips  was  anything  but  refined,  and  a  few 
oaths  dropped  from  between  the  set  teeth. 

"Let  me  go,  you  old  wench !"  shouted  the  lad. 
"I  hate  you,  you  let  me  go !"    But  he  was  being  ^ 
walked  away  by  the  hair  of  his  head,  and  had 
not  Hilda  interfered  there  is  no  telling  what 
would  have  happened  to  Midge. 


A  CHILD  OF  THE   SLUMS.  133 

Mag  turned  as  the  beautiful  lady  drove  to  her 
Bide. 

"Is  that  the  child  who  sells  the  flowers?"  said 
«he,  thinking  if  she  told  her  real  errand  she  would 
be  balked  by  the  hag.  "I  purchased  some  from 
him  the  other  day,  and  want  some  more." 

The  long,  bony  fingers  loosened  themselves 
from  the  curls,  and  Midge  stood  with  drooping 
€yes  before  the  first  woman  who  had  ever  kissed 
him.  Well  did  the  little  chap  remember  that  ca- 
rees !  He  had  even  hated  to  wash  his  face  for  fear 
of  losing  the  sweet  sensation.  But  he  remem- 
bered that  next  morning  after  a  ducking  in  the 
river  his  heart  had  burned  as  hard  and  the  kiss 
was  as  sweet  as  when  first  placed  there  by  the 
rosy  lips  of  the  beauty. 

"You  will  take  this  money,  woman,"  said 
Hilda,  holding  out  a  bill  toward  the  old  hag,  "and 
let  the  child  come  in  here  with  me,  so  that  he  can 
get  me  some  more  flowers." 

"Ah,  that's  right,  my  little  boy,"  wheedled 
she.  "He  is  such  a  good  boy,  and  gives  his  mother 
all  the  money  he  gets.  I  loves  dat  boy,  I  do." 
And  croning  over  the   paper  in   her   hand  she 


i 
134  A   CHiLD   OP   THE    SLUMS. 

watched  the  little  lad  bundled  into  the  cab  anc 
the  driver  turn  the  horse's  head  toward  Broad- 
w  ay.  Midge  counted  himself  a  lucky  boy.  May-' 
be  he  would  get  another  kiss.  He  had  no  doubw 
that  the  lady  really  did  want  the  flowers,  but 
another  caress  he  must  have. 

Hilda  said  no  word  as  they  drove 'along,  but 
Midge  feared  he  was  going  to  be  cheated  out  of 
the  kiss. 

Raising  his  face  toward  hers,  Hilda  saw  tin 
black  eyes  which  stirred  her  to  the  very  soul 
looking  into  her  face. 

"Will  you  do  him  ag'in?"  and  Midge  delicately 
touched  the  sacred  spot  where  the  two  beautiful 
lips  had  rested  before. 

The  mother-heart  in  the  woman  opened  like  a 
flood.  There  was  something  in  this  dirty  little 
child  that  carried  her  out  of  herself. 

She  placed  her  two  arms  tightly  about  him. 
Pressing  her  lips  to  his  she  gathered  in  the  kissea 
as  if  hungry.  The  fair  face  of  the  boy  flushed 
under  the  emotion,  but  Hilda  remembered  after 
he  was  gone  that  he  clung  to  her  with  a  fervor 
equal  to  her  own. 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  135 

"Do  you  live  with  that  dreadful  woman  ?'^ 
fvSked  Hilda,  when  she  had  made  the  child  under- 
^itand  that  she  only  wanted  to  talk  with  him 
^gain,  and  did  not  want  flowers. 

"I  lives  with  her,  but  she  ain't  my  mother,'^ 
was  the  answer. 

"Have  you  no  friends,  then,  at  all?  No  one  to 
kiss  you  like  I  did?"  and  the  flood  of  color  which 
«wept  over  the  woman's  face  to  the  lovely  neck 
was  answered  by  one  equally  vivid  in  the  face 
^f  the  boy. 

"I  were  never  kissed  before,"  said  he. 

"Then,  poor  little  fellow,  you  have  not  a  friend 
in  the  world?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  has  one,  and  he  is  a  good  man: 
that  is  Mr.  Wentworth,  but  he  is  awful  sick  and 
maybe  won't  get  well." 

Hilda  caught  her  breath.  Had  the  villain  now 
seeking  to  marry  a  good  girl  lied  to  her  as  to  the 
death  of  the  heir  to  a  fortune  which  Gerson  had 
claimed?  v 

She  did  not  say  anything  for  a  long  time,  and 
then  took  the  child's  face  in  her  hands  and  again 
kissed  it.    Midge  was  getting  used  to  such  warra„ 


136  A  CHILD   OF  THE  SLUMS. 

passionate  kisses ;  he  could  now  enjoy  it  without 
the  guilty  flush. 

^^I  love  you,  little  lad,''  said  Hilda,  "and  I 
wonder  if  you  would  like  to  come  home  and  live 
wdth  me?" 

Ah,  how  strong  are  the  ties  of  motherhood, 
and  how  tense  the  longing  for  her  lost  oae !  Who 
can  tell  but  that  the  very  vibrations  of  the  air 
had  led  the  golden-haired  woman  to  the  dark- 
«yed  child  in  the  Bowery? 


A  CHILD  OF   THE  SLUMS.  137 


CHAPTER  IX. 

^'Willing  to  go  with  her,  to  be  kissed  and  loved 
forever?" 

This  was  the  thought  that  flashed  over  Midge, 
as  with  proprietary  action  he  leaned  back,  with 
a  sigh,  in  the  cab. 

"Would  you  like  to  live  with  me  always?'^ 
Hilda  said  again. 

"Course  I  would,''  replied  the  child,''  and  I 
could  have  all  der  kisses  you  has,  couldn't  I?" 

Hilda  laughed  happily.  Something  in  her 
heart  answered  to  the  wish  of  the  child  for 
caresses. 

"I  have  a  good  husband  at  my  home,  who  would 
be  very  good  to  you,  Midge."  Hilda  had  almost 
y  said  "Dicky."  She  would  call  him  "Dick,"  if  he 
should  come  home  with  her. 

"Tell  me  about  this  Mr.  Wentworth,"  said  she. 
*^Tell  where  he  is  and  how  he  came  to  live  in  such 
a  place." 

^^Well,  youse  see,"  began  Midge,  "dat  he  ain't 


138  A   CHILD   OF  THE   SLUMS. 

got  no  money.  And  his  friend  went  off  and  left 
him  for  dead,  so  the  man  ain't  got  no  one  but  mc. 
I'll  stand  by  him  till  the  dogs  are  all  et  up.'^ 

"The  what?"  questioned  Hilda. 

*'Dogs,  weinerwursts,  frankfurters,"  said  the  ^ 
€hild,  trying  to  explain  away  the  mystified  look 
tliat  came  into  the  blue  eyes. 

"Oh,"  was  all  she  said. 

Hilda  did  not  forget  to  give  the  child  i  .v..,.,.. 
money  to  appease  the  wrath  of  the  woman  witli 
whom  he  lived,  telling  him  that  it  would  not  be 
long  before  she  would  see  him  again.  She  toolc 
him  into  a  store  and  purchased  him  a  pretty  suit, 
having  his  face  washed  at  the  barber  shop,  where 
the  tangled  hair  was  cleaned  and  put  to  rights. 

Midge  strutted  along  in  his  new  boots  and  fine 
clothes,  and  Mag  could  not  believe  her  eyes  when 
he  slipped  another  bill  into  her  hand. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  wear  them  brand-new 
shoes,  you  little  loafer,"  said  she,  with  a  squeak. 
^^You  take  them  right  over  to  the  shop  and  get  a 
dollar  an'  bring  it  back  to  me." 

"I  guess  not,"  replied  Midge,  "for  the  lady  is 
comin'  again,  and  she  said  if  I  did  not  have  dese 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  13(> 

clothes  and  dese  boots  she  wouldn't  guv  me  any 
more  money." 

So  Mag  looked  at  the  money  in  her  hand,  and 
Midge  at  the  fine  clothes  he  had  on,  and  both 
thought  it  a  good  bargain  which  had  better  stand. 

Midge  heard  a  weak  voice  calling  him  from 
above.  With  great  pride  he  displayed  himself  to 
the  admiring  eyes  of  Frank  Wentworth. 

^^A  lady,  a  real,  live  lady  guv  me  these  things, 
Mr.  Frank,''  said  the  happy  child.  "Did  you  ever 
see  such  shoes,  and  do  youse  know"  (and  here  the 
boy  blushed  and  looked  about  in  fear  that  other 
ears  beside  Frank's  would  hear)  "does  youse 
know  dat  she  kissed  me  till  I  lost  my  breath,  I 
did.  I'd  ruther  have  dose  kisses  than  dese  here 
clothes." 

Wentworth  wiped  away  a  tear.  How  the  little 
heart  had  longed  for  love  and  caresses !  He 
would  prefer  love  to  clothes,  would  this  little 
child  of  the  slums.  Prank  thought  of  Ruth.  So 
would  he ;  it  was  the  same  wherever  a  heart  beat 
in  the  human  breast.  What  was  money  com- 
pared  to  love? 

Midge  was  swinging  his  feet  from  a  high  box 


140  A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS. 

Mag  had  placed  there  to  hold  the  small  piece  of 
candle.  There  was  an  expression  Frank  had 
never  seen  before  upon  the  clean,  shining  face. 

"She  wants  me  to  come  and  live  wid  her,"  said 
he  at  last,  looking  at  the  shiny  tips  of  his  new 
shoes,  "and  she  has  a  good  man,  same  relation 
dat  Bill  is  to  Mag.'' 

"You  mean  her  husband,''  said  Frank. 

"Yep,  de  old  man  what  bosses  her  'bout" 

Frank  did  not  explain  that  refined  men  never 
treated  their  wives  as  Bill  did  Mag.  What  was 
the  use?  The  child  would  find  that  out,  if  it  ever 
became  his  good  fortune  to  be  planted  in  new 
soil.  And  there  would  not  be  a  happier  man  than 
Frank  to  know  that  the  little  waif  had  found  a 
place  in  a  good  home.  Midge  was  certainly  a 
handsome  little  fellow. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  leave  Mag  and  Bill?" 
asked  Frank.  "You  are  afraid  of  the  man,  are 
you  not?" 

"He's  a  bad  man,"  said  the  child,  squinting  his 
eye  along  the  light  which  shone  from  his  boot- 
top.  "He  and  er  gang  wot  makes  money  under 
the  sidewalk — bad,  bad.'^ 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS,  141 

This  was  said  in  so  low  a  tone  that  Prank  could 
just  hear  it. 

"They  counterfeit  money,  do  you  mean,  lad?" 

"Yep,  in  the  vault  under  the  walk." 

"Then  keep  away  from  them.  Midge,  and  don^t 
let  them  teach  you  to  do  bad  things." 

"I  am  goin'  wid  de  lady,"  replied  Midge,  with 
conviction.  "I  ain't  goin'  to  swear  any  more, 
eader.  She  kissed  dese  lips."  Midge  puckered 
up  the  rosebud  mouth,  out  of  which  had  come 
both  blessings  and  curses. 

Frank  saw  that  already  a  good  influeBce  was 
at  work.    He  was  glad  for  the  little  lad. 

"It  does  me  good,  child,  to  think  of  you  in  a 
better  home,"  was  all  he  said. 

"And  it  would  do  me  good  could  you  find  dat 
lady  youse  is  worrying  over.  I  taut  I  saw  her 
one  day,  just  like  der  locket." 

Like  a  man  snatching  at  a  straw  in  midocean, 
so  Frank  Wentworth  caught  the  child^s  hands  in 
his. 

"Where  did  you  see  her?" 

Midge  told  of  the  time  the  carriage  had  stopped 
in  the  alleyway,  and  about  the  young  lady  wha 


14JJ  A   CHILD   OF  THE   SLUMS. 

thouglit  that  he,  Midge,  might  hurt  the  yellow- 
haired  girl. 

^^But  I  wouldn't  hurt  her,  Mr.  Frank,''  said 
Midge,  filled  with  his  own  part  of  the  story  and 
forgetting  how  much  the  sick  man  wanted  to 
know  about  the  little  dark-haired  girl  who  after- 
ward kept  still  while  Hilda  was  talking,  from 
the  very  shame  of  doubting  the  child. 

^'Do  you  suppose  you  could  find  her  again. 
Midge?" 

^*You  bel;  wiien  I  see  the  other  lady,  and  then  1 
knows  where  dey  lives,  'cause  I  went  dere  with 
flowers  once."  "^ 

Midge  had  taken  a  sudden  resolution.  He 
w^ould  go  to  the  pretty  young  lady  and  look  at  her 
face  again  and  see  if  it  was  the  face  in  the  locket, 
and  if  it  were,  he  would  tell  her  that  a  sick 
man  wanted  her  very  much.  Midge  never  doubted 
for  a  moment  that  any  woman  loved  by  Frank 
Wentworth  would  be  delighted  to  come  and  see 
^him. 

The  boy  stole  downstairs  with  eat-like  tread. 
He  could  hear  the  whispers  of  the  old  w^omaii 
and  Bill.    Midge  listened. 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  143 

^^He  ain't  der  man  he  says  he  is,"  the  child 
heard  the  man's  voice  say.  "He  er  a-playin'  he 
er  the  man  upstairs,  and  is  trying  to  get  der 
money.  I  can  make  him  guv  me  der  rocks  if  we 
keep  them  apart/' 

Midge  thought  it  was  something  about  his 
friend.    Closer  the  child  came  to  the  door. 

'^What  er  youse  goin'  to  do?"  asked  Mag. 

"See. the  new  Mr.  Wentworth  and  have  him 
line  my  pockets  with  der  dough  and  get  der  man 
upstairs  out  of  der  country.  He  has  pulled  the 
AYOol  over  der  eyes  of  every  one,  and  as  long  as  he 
knows  we  want  der  rocks  he  will  guv  them  to 
us." 

This  was  enough  for  Midge.  He  crept  back  up- 
stairs and  came  tumbling  down.  The  conversa- 
tion was  hushed  directly. 

"Don't  be  gone  long,  Midge,"  yelled  Mag,  but 
the  boy  scurried  away  and  w^as  gone  before  either 
Bill  or  the  woman  could  stop  him. 

It  did  not  take  him  long  to  steal  enough  rides 
upon  the  street  cars  to  bring  him  to  the  Mathers 
home.  He  lingered  outside,  hoping  to  see  the 
small  girl  whose  face  he  knew  shone  in  the  locket. 


144  A   CHILD   OP  THE   SLUMS. 

For  a  long  time  the  child  waited.  It  was  not 
tedious,  for  was  it  not  an  errand  of  love? 

Suddenly  the  large  door  opened  and  Ruth  came 
out  alone.     She  had  no  hat  on,  as  the  day  was' 
warm.     She  crossed  the  road  to  the  little  park^ 
and  entered  it. 

Midge  scurried  after  her  with  the  agility  of  a 
rabbit  and  passed  her  with  a  knowing  look  upon, 
his  face. 

The  girl  sat  down  on  a  bench,  evidently  think- 
ing. 

Midge,  with  a  nerve  born  in  the  Bowery,  seated 
himself  beside  her.  He  had  come  for  a  specific 
reason.  He  would  not  allow  her  to  go  without 
telling  her  now  of  the  picture  in  the  locket  and 
the  loving  man  alone  in  the  garret  room. 

"What  do  you  want,  little  boy?    A  nickel?" 

"No,  ma^am ;  I  wanted  to  look  in  youse  face  and 
see  if  it  ain't  the  one  he  holds  next  to  his  heart.'^ 

"Whose  heart?''  asked  the  girl,  incredulously: 

"Mr.  Wentworth's,''  said  the  boy,  pronouncing 
the  man's  name  distinctly. 

"What  Mr.  Wentworth?  I  have  never  given 
Mm  a  picture  in  all  my  life.'' 


A   CHILD   OP  THE   SLUMS.  145 

"He  says  you  did,  miss,  and  he  is  awfully  siek  ; 
maybe  youse  don't  know  it,  but  he  loves  youse 
awfully  well.'' 

"Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  child?"  said  Ruth^ 
turning  on  the  boy  sharply. 

"Mr.  Wentworth,  who  is  siek,  but  he  is  going 
to  get  up  to-day.  He  lives  in  der  Bowery  wid  the 
old  hag.  But  every  night" — and  here  Midge  gvesfr 
confidential — "every  night  he  kisses  youse  face^ 
and  when  he  was  real  sick  he  called  youse  name- 
always." 

Buth  stood  up  and  loosened  her  collar.  It 
seemed  that  she  would  choke  to  death.  What  was 
the  child  saying  to  her,  and  about  whom  was  he 
speaking? 

"Child,  do  you  know  of  a  Frank  Wentworth, 
who  is  ill?" 

"  'Deed  I  does,  miss,  and  he  kisses  youse  pie- 
ture  every  night."  Midge  was  growing  eloquent. 
His  dark  eyes  flashed  fire  and  the  glint  of  the 
sunshine  through  the  golden  hair  struck  Ruth 
as  strangely  familiar.  She  thought  it  was  the 
same  color  as  Hilda's,  only,  of  course,  short  In 
curls  about  the  babyish  face. 


146  A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS. 

Midge,  seeing  that  the  girl  waited  for  him  to 
speak,  started  in  from  tlie  beginning.  He  told 
of  the  time  the  two  men  came  there  for  a  room 
for  one — Frank  Wentworth  and  Richard  Gerson. 
Ruth  started  at  that  name.  Again  she  thought 
of  Hilda  and  the  little  lost  boy. 

After  the  child  had  finished,  he  explained  that 
he  loved  the  roomer  so  very  much  that  he  would 
be  glad  to  know  that  he  was  happy. 

^'It's  cold  to  always  kiss  glass,''  said  the  child; 
"and  dat  is  what  he  does.'' 

Ruth  knew  this,  also,  for  had  not  her  own 
heart  called  for  a  warm,  passionate  face  to  caress 
rather  than  the  one  which  lay  in  the  little  box, 
the  key  of  which  hung  about  her  neck? 

The  child  went  back,  as  quietly  as  he  had  come, 
to  the  Bowery  home.  He  would  tell  the  sick  man 
about  the  girl  and  give  him  the  guarded  message 
which  she  sent.  Ruth  had  been  afraid  to  hope, 
but  never  once  did  she  think  that  the  other  Mr. 
Wentworth  was  an  impostor  and  that  the  sick 
man  in  the  horrible  garret  was  her  Frank.  How 
quickly  she  would  have  followed  Midge  had  she 
known !    But  she  sent  advice  as  to  his  health,  and 


A   CHILD  OF   THE   SLUMS.  147? 

mentally  ma4e  up  her  mind  that  she  would  go 
herself  and  see  the  man  sometime. 

Midge  reached  home  and  went  straight  to  the 
garret.  The  room  was  empty  and  Frank  was  gone. 
That  morning  he  had  heard  the  patient  say  that 
the  doctor  had  consented  to  his  walking  a  little 
in  th^  sunshine.  So  Midge  went  below  and  asked 
Mag  if  she  knew  where  the  boarder  was. 

"You  mind  youse  own  business/'  stormed  the 
woman;  "youse  is  always  too  smart.  He  is  out 
a-walkin'." 

This  was  all  Midge  wanted  to  know.  He  sat 
for  a  long  time  upon  the  step,  waiting,  until  the 
sun  went  down  behind  the  tall  buildings  and  the 
shadows  lengthened  in  the  street  and  a  cool 
breeze  blew  up  from  the  river. 

****** 

Frank  Wentworth  lay  for  a  long  time  after 
Midge  had  left  him.  He  thought  of  the  little 
dark  girl  of  whom  the  child  had  spoken.  He 
loved  Euth  now  with  all  the  strength  of  his  re- 
turning fire.  He  was  getting  well.  Many  things 
rushed  through  his  head. 

Where  had  Gerson  disappeared  to?  One  would 


148  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

have  thought  the  man  would  have  returned  tc& 
bury  a  dear,  dead  friend.  But  no  sight  of  hist 
college  chum  nor  no  word  since  the  day  Frank 
Wentworth  had  virtually  died  in  the  slums. 

He  got  up  slowly  and  dressed  in  his  light  suit. 
He  looked  thin  and  haggard,  but  congratulated 
himself  that  he  was  living. 

"Somehow  I  feel  happy  now,^^  said  he,  almost 
whispering  it  to  himself.  "I  will  walk  in  the 
sun;  it  will  cheer  me  up.  I  wonder  if  Midge 
really  saw  Kuth.  The  world  is  not  so  large,  after 
all,''  he  sighed.  The  sight  of  the  tall,  thin,  pale 
man  started  an  ejaculation  from  Mag. 

"Youse  had  better  not  go  far,''  said  she,  lift- 
ing a  warning  finger.  "Youse  look  like  a  bag  of 
bones  now,  youse  does.'' 

Frank  smiled  wanly.  How  beautiful  looked 
the  day  to  him!  The  returning  life  rushing 
through  his  veins  gave  him  a  new  incentive  to 
live. 

Only  to  see  Ri^th  and  to  know  that  she  loved 
him  would  be  Heaven !  Once  in  the  park  at  Four- 
teenth street  he  drank  in  the  long  draughts  of 
^ir. 


A  CHILD  OF   THE  SLUMS.  1491 

He  sat  with  his  head  resting  upon  his  hand 
and  noted  not  the  passers-by  until  one  familiar 
voice  broke  upon  his  ear. 

"As  I  live,  are  you  not  Prank  Wentworth?" 
Bichard  Gerson  stood  before  the  sick  man  in  all 
the  style  of  the  season.  Frank,  as  he  rose  to  his 
feet,  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  handsomer  man 
in  all  his  life.  How  happy  he  was  to  stretch  out 
his  hand  to  take  the  dear  fingers  in  his.  But  to 
his  surprise  there  was  no  answering  response. 
Gerson  was  simply  looking  at  him  as  if  a  spectre 
had  arisen  from  the  tomb  and  an  accusing  finger 
was  pointing  toward  him.  He  edged  away  and 
then  said: 

"I  thought  you  were  dead,'^  and  there  was  al- 
most a  look  of  unbelief  in  the  black  eyes.  "You 
cannot  expect  me  to  believe  against  my  senses.'' 

"But  I  did  not  die,  and  I  am  getting  almost 
well  enough  to  go  to  the  office.  Are  you  still 
there?" 

"No,  it  is  closed.  Since  leaving  you,  I  have 
come  into  some  money,  hence  our  future  will  be 
as  far  apart  as  our  pasts  were  linked  together.'^ 

The  sick  man  must  have  no  opportunity  to 


150  A  CHILD   OP   THE  SLUMS. 

come  into  his  own.     He  must  be  gotten  out  i 
the  country.     What  a  miserable  meeting,  am: 
■\vhere  was  his  sense  in  asking  the  man  if  he  were 
living? 

"The  shock  was  natural,  Dick,^^  said  Frank, 
"but  you  should  not  go  back  on  your  old  friend.'^ 

"Circumstances  alter  cases,'^  answered  Gerson ; 
"and  you  will  do  well  not  to  follow  me  about.'' 

A  look  of  hauteur  spread  over  the  pale  face.  H< 
clutched  at  the  bench-arm. 

"You  need  not  exercise  yourself.  I  do  not  push 
myself  where  I  am  not  wanted.'' 

"There,  there,  old  fellow,  don't  worry,"  soothed 
Gerson,  a  plan  coming  into  his  head.  "I  spoke 
rashly.  I  want  to  send  you  abroad  for  your 
health.    I  have  plenty  of  money  now." 

"I  would  not  accept  one  penny  from  your 
hands  if  I  were  starving.  I  wish  you  to  i>ass  on 
and  leave  me  to  myself." 

For  a  long  time  the  man  sat  with  his  face  in 
his  hands,  the  dreams  of  the  future  dashed  to^ 
the  ground.    Gerson  had  been  his  life-long  friend. 
He  loved  him  still,    God   help   him,    but  there 
should  be  no  more  intercourse  between  them. 


A  CHILD  OP   THE   SLUMS.  I5I 


CHAPTER  X.  ^ 

Gerson  left  the  spot  where  Frank  was  sitting; 
with  conflicting  emotions.  He  had  not  dreamed 
for  one  moment  the  man  was  not  dead.  He 
thought  at  first  it  was  a  ghost  walking  out  of 
the  past  when  he  had  seen  the  emaciated  body 
resting  on  the  bench.  Why  he  had  spoken  to  him 
he  could  not  tell. 

As  he  walked  along  he  saw  he  was  within  a 
door  or  two  of  the  house  where  Frank  lived. 
What  fate  had  directed  his  steps  there?  Only 
the  hum  of  old  Mag's  voice  could  be  heard 
through  the  dirty  window.  Then  Gerson  saw  Bill 
Maglone  open  the  door  and  walk  out. 

"Coming  back  soon?"  he  heard  Mag  sing  out. 

Only  a  grunt  was  the  answer. 

Here  was  the  very  person  Gerson  wanted.  Willi 
an  air  of  authority  he  took  the  ragged  arm,  tell- 
ing the  man  he  had  a  business  transaction  to 
make  with  him. 


1^^  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

^^And  I  wanted  to  see  youse,  too,"  said  Bill,  a 
little  warily,  for  he  did  not  know  what  this  fine 
gentleman  might  want  with  him. 

Gerson  explained  that  it  was  to  his  advantage 
.  that  the  presence  of  Frank  Wentworth  should 
not  be  known  in  the  city. 

Bill  answered,  with  alertness,  that  he  knew 

why,  and  before  Gerson  could  answer,  the  jail- 

nrd  had  told  of  the  scene  in  the  garret  and  how 

le  had  known  all  along  that  a  false  man  was 

-standing  in  his  friend's  shoes. 

Now,  more  than  ever,  did  the  man  realize  that 
BilPs  mouth  must  be  closed  with  gold.  They  laid 
plans  whereby  Frank  Wentworth  could  be  kept 
40ut  of  the  way  until  he  had  promised  to  go 
^abroad,  and  then  all  would  be  well. 

"You  must  keep  him  hid  in  some  way,"  said 
<jerson,  firmly^  "for  if  certain  people  get  a  sight 
of  his  face  the  game  will  all  be  off.  Do  you 
mderstand?" 

Bill  stuck  out  his  tongue  and  rolled  a  large 
^uid  of  tobacco  into  his  cheek. 

"Leave  the  sick  bird  to  me.  I  always  did  hate 
Jiim,  he  was  so  tender  with  the  kid.    Why,  once 


A  CHILD   OF  THE   SLUMS.  153 

altec  I  had  strapped  the  brat,  I  saw  the  fellow 
bathing  off  the  blood  wid  a  wet  rag.'^ 

Gerson  shuddered. 
^      Such  cruelty  as  was  in  the  big,  ugly  body 
would  deal  summarily  with  the  weak  man  he  had 
left  in  the^ark. 

As  he  walked  aw^ay  a  good  impulse  came  over 
him  to  undo  the  dreadful  work.  He  was  taken 
back  into  the  past  when,  one  day,  he,  with  five 
other  good  fellows,  lay  waiting  for  the  coming 
of  a  maiden.  Yet  Gterson  could  hear  the  sweet 
voice  sing: 

^^The  hours  I  have  spent  with  you,  dear  heart, 
Are  as  a  string  of  pearls  to  me." 

And  again  the  heated  imagination  could  detect 
the  sigh  which  came  with  the  words : 

"I  kiss  each  bead  and  strive  at  last 
To  learn  to  kiss  the  cross.'' 

How  many  times  had  the  lips  which  he  would 
have  given  worlds  to  press,  kissed  that  same  cross 
ahe  hstd  sung  about !  How  many  tears  had  washed 


154  A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 

away  the  gilt  from  her  rosary,  the  incense  of 
which  would  not  and  should  not  bless  Frank 
Wentworth ! 

This  thought  made  Gerson  wheel  about.  He 
hailed  a  cab,  and  looking  out  of  the  window  as 
he  was  being  driven  toward  the  avenue,  he  saw 
Bill  walk  thoughtfully  into  the  hovel  where  he 
had  left  his  wife. 

There  was  much  whispering  between  Bill  and 
Mag,  once  the  w^oman  strenuously  objecting  to 
something.  She  got  up  and  walked  to  a  place 
in  the  floor  and  raised  a  trap-door.  Into  this 
she  peered,  flashing  the  stub  of  a  candle  about 
to  see  the  interior. 

"He  would  die  in  there,''  said  she,  after  the 
examination. 

i^Not  if  he  will  do  as  I  tell  him/'  was  the 
answer.  "He  don't  need  to  stay  dere  three  hours 
if  he  will  go  from  the  country,  and  a  good  gen- 
tleman will  pay  his  way." 

"He  must  have  a  bug  up  his  sleeve,  this  good 
man,"  sneered  Mag.  "Oh,  you  can't  fool  me,  Bill. 
Youse  is  a-goin'  to  hurt  that  boy." 

''Ain't  not,"  reiterated  the  man.     "Won't  a <. 


A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS.  155 

Bothin'  to  him  but  keep  him  from  the  light  of 
day.'' 

"And  I  can  guv  him  food  and  water  as  long  as 
he  is  there?" 

"Feed  him  on  the  best  in  der  land,  Mag,  if 
youse  wishes,  only  don't  let  der  kid  know  where 
he  is." 

Mag  loved  the  ugly  faced  man  who  was  talking 
to  her.  He  had  promised  to  take  her  away  from 
the  Bowery  back  to  their  old  home  in  Ireland  if 
their  plans  worked,  and  as  long  as  they  would  not 
hurt  the  lad  then  she  was  in  for  the  money. 

Hardly  had  they  ceased  planning  before  the 
door  opened  and  Frank  walked  in.  Now  was 
the  time  for  action. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Mr.  Wentworth,  you  have  never 
seen  the  shop  I  work  in,  have  youse?"  asked  Bill 
in  such  a  friendly  tone  that  the  sick  man  turned* 

"I  believe  not,"  he  answered,  languidly. 
"Where  is  it?" 

"Hold  the  candle,  old  woman,  so  the  lad  can 
see  to  the  very  depths." 

Prank  cautiously  stepped  into  the  foul-smell- 
ing cellar.    The  air  made  him  feel  faint. 


156  A   CHILD  OP   THE   SLUMS. 

"This  is  where  we  do  our  work/'  said  Bill, 
lifting  a  huge  hammer  and  then  dropping  it  on 
the  floor.  "You  can  see  by  the  thickness  of  dis 
wall  dat  no  human  bein'  on  der  outside  can  hear 
one  t'ing  from  der  inside." 

"How  do  you  ventilate  it?''  asked  Frank,  peer- 
ing at  the  moulds  and  such-like  things  lying  in 
confusion  upon  the  floor. 

"We  leaves  the  door  open  into  the  kitchen  at 
night ;  'twouldn't  do  to  hev  a  window,  with  snoop- 
ing kids  about." 

Prank  made  a  move  toward  the  stairs.  But  the 
powerful  body  of  Bill  Maglone  had  borne  him 
to  the  earth  before  he  could  speak. 

"You're  goin'  to  stay  in  here  for  awhile,"  said 
he,  With  a  sneer,  as  he  fixed  a  chained  padlock 
about  the  ankle.  "There  is  a  gentleman  who  is 
anxious  to  hev  you  go  abroad  for  youse  health, 
and  when  youse  says  youse  will  go,  then  we  will 
take  you  from  this  place." 

No  amount  of  persuading  could  make  the  coun- 
terfeiter change  his  mind.  Frank  watched  the 
man  as  he  climbed  the  stairs  and  rapped  three 
times  upon  the  door.    The  trap  lifted,  the  fellow 


A  CHILD   OP  THE   SLUMS.  157 

squeezed  through  and  the  patient  was  alone.  All 
he  could  hear  was  the  slight  noise  of  walking 
upon  the  floor  overhead.  He  knew  that  the  out- 
side world  was  as  far  away  as  the  depths  of  a 
tomb  would  be  from  the  shining  sun.  There 
would  be  no  use  to  call  for  help,  he  knew  this. 
It  would  be  better  to  keep  his  waning  strength 
for  future  use. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Midge  came  home  with 
the  little  meagre  message  which  the  dark-haired 
girl  had  sent.  The  long  wait  on  the  steps,  the 
coming  night,  the  darkness,  and  yet  no  Frank, 
filled  the  child  with  the  sense  of  coming  evil.  He 
could  not  imagine  what  had  come  to  his  friend. 
Mag  came  out  once  and  kicked  the  child  into 
action. 

*^Get  along  wid  youse,'^  shouted  she,  "and  don't 
sit  there  like  a  stupid  fool !" 

But  the  boy  only  moved  to  a  step  farther  up 
the  street  and  remained  silent.  After  it  had  be- 
come so  late  that  he  feared  a  beating  he  stole 
back  into  the  house  and  laid  twenty-five  cents  be- 
side the  sleeping  old  woman^  whom  the  husband 
had  charged  not  to  leave  the  room  during  his 


15S  A   CHILD  OP   THE   SLUMS. 

absence.  Midge,  without  supper,  climbed  the 
?^tairs  and  proceeded  to  take  off  his  small  trousers 
and  slide  into  bed.  The  money  on  her  plate  sat- 
i>sfied  the  woman  the  boy  was  indoors.  She  did 
not  take  the  trouble  to  investigate,  and  Midge 
o^^lept  a  troubled  sleep  until  morning.  The  first 
break  of  day  he  peeped  into  the  cot  where  Frank 
Wentworth  had  slept  for  months.  But  as  on  the 
night  before  it  was  empty,  and  the  child  again 
sank  into  a  slumber  until  the  loud  voice  of  Mag 
aroused  him.  She  wanted  him  to  go  to  the  store. 
The  little  fellow  slipped  heartlessly  into  his 
clothes.  He  did  not  dare  to  mention  the  boarder 
for  fear  of  a  slap.  He  hoped  something  would  be 
said,  but  the  coffee,  with  the  sweet  bread,  was 
eaten  and  with  silence  the  boy  and  man  departed 
for  their  respective  business.  Soon  Midge  was 
ringing  out  his  flowers  along  Broadway,  while 
I>ill  slouched  to  a  meeting  with  the  new  Went- 
worth. 

Hilda  had  come  into  town  again  to  see  Ruth. 
The  girl  confided  t#  her  the  conversation  ^e  had 
with  the  small  boy,  and  together  the  two  ordered 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  X59 

i«  caiTiage  and  went  into  the  district  where 
^liida  had  first  seen  the  child,  Midge. 

As  they  drove  slowly  along,  Euth  spied  the 
flower  child. 

She  bade  the  footman  to  hail  him,  and  Hilda 
drew  aside  and  allowed  the  boy  to  seat  himself 
beside  her.  The  wistful  eyes  asked  again  the  old 
question  and  the  woman  stooped  down  and  kissed 
the  sweet  face. 

*^Did  you  take  the  message  to  the  gentleman 
you  told  me  about,  little  boy?''  asked  Ruth, 
eagerly. 

*'No,  ma'am;  he  er  gone,  and  I  don't  know 
where  he  is." 

^^Whendidhego?" 

^^The  time  I  came  to  you,  miss." 

''It  does  not  seem  possible  that  a  man  could 
disappear  wholly  from  sight.  Did  he  not  leave 
any  address?" 

"Not  that  I  knows  on,"  replied  the  child. 

At  this  moment  a  most  peculiar  thing  hap- 
pened. The  new  Wentworth,  with  his  jauntiest 
air,  approached  the  carriage,  not  noticing  the 
child. 


160  A   CHILD  OF   THE  SLUMS. 

^'How  are  you,  ladies,  this  morning?^'  said  he, 
r  holding  out  his  hand  and  imprisoning  Kuth's 
fingers  in  his  strong  ones. 

Then  he  noticed  the  child,  and  gave  him  a 
w  arning  look. 

Hilda  saw  it,  but  Kuth,  not  acquainted  with 
the  situation,  and  being  innocent  of  any  decep- 
tion, drew  her  hand  from  his. 

"Nice  little  boy  you  have,''  commented  the 
man,  hoping  that  the  child  would  fail  to  recog- 
nize him. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Wentworth,"  said  Kuth,  "this  is  a 
little  fellow  Hilda  and  I  have  taken  an  interest 
in.  Can  you  not  shake  hands  with  the  gentleman, 
Midge?" 

The  child  measured  the  length  of  the  man  with 
his  great  starry  eyes.  Then  a  sneer  stole  over 
his  face. 

"Dat  ain't  Mr.  Wentworth,"  shouted  he,  in  a 
high  treble  voice.  "It  am  der  bloke  what  left  his 
good  friend  fer  dead,  Mr.  Eichard  Gerson.'' 

"The  child  mistakes  me  for  some  one  else,"  said 
the  man,  smiling  sickly  into  the  faces  of  the 
ladies.    "I  am  Mr.  Frank  Wentworth,  my  boy." 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  1^1 

"Like  ^ell  you  are  V^  said  Midge,  forgetting  that 
tie  had  promised  not  to  swear. 

"Euth,  you  believe  me,  do  you  not?"  and  Hilda 
noted  that  the  girl  was  the  one  to  whom  he  made 
his  first  appeal  for  belief.  Ruth  did  not  answer, 
but  took  Hilda's  hand  in  hers. 

*'The  child  may  have  made  a  mistake.  You 
certainly  would  not  take  the  name  of  a  dead  man^ 
or  even  of  a  living  one,  would  you?"  said  she. 

There  was  such  an  appeal  in  the  voice  that  the 
man  thought  he  discerned  the  ring  of  love  in  it. 

"It  is  a  lie  the  child  has  told.  Why  he  should 
have  invented  it  is  more  than  I  can  tell." 

"  'Cause  it's  true,"  grunted  the  boy,  as  he 
nestled  closer  to  the  yellow-haired  woman.  Hilda 
was  holding  fast  to  the  little  hand  and  pressing 
it  under  the  cover  of  her  skirt.  She  was  urging 
the  boy  to  continue. 

"Mr.  Wentworth  is  alive,"  said  the  child.    "I  , 
can  prove  it  by  Mag  and  Bill." 

"Then  we  will  drive  to  the  house  and  let  him 
prove  it.  The  time  has  come  for  us  to  stop  such 
a  terrible  tale." 

Into  the  cab  climbed  the  man  and  the  direction 


162  A   CHILD  OF   THE  SLUMS. 

of  the  Bowery  was  taken.  Bill  Maglone  was  sit- 
ting whittling  at  his  doorstep.  Mag  came  oat  at 
the  sound  of  wheels.  Now  there  was  Midge 
i  snuggled  close  to  that  same  woman  who  had 
^wanted  the  flowers!  What  next  would  come  to 
that  child? 

Gerson  sprang  from  the  cab  and  walked  up  to 
Bill,  sw^eeping  his  hat  from  his  head. 

"Be  careful  what  you  say,  fool,"  whispered  he, 
making  a  motion  toward  the  carriage,  and  then 
loud  enough  for  the  occupants  to  hear,  he  went 
on: 

"Come  out  here,  sir,  the  ladies  wish  to  ask  you 
something." 

Dropping  his  shavings  upon  the  ground  the 
man  drawled  out  a  command  to  his  wife  to  take 
herself  to  the  house,  and  sauntered  toward  the 
w^aiting  carriage.  He  deposited  a  mouthful  of 
tobacco  juice  upon  the  street  and  copied  Gerson 
by  sweeping  off  his  hat. 

"Can  I  does  anything  for  the  ladies?" 
I     "This  child,"  said  Gerson,  "says  that  he  knows 
*  you.     Now,  if  that  is  so,  will  you  deny  before 
these  ladies  that  I  am  otherwise  than  Mr.  Went- 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  163 

worth?  The  child  says  that  I  am  not,  and  that 
the  true  Frank  Wentworth  lives  here  in  this 
house.     Will  you  produce  him,  if  it  is  so?'' 

Tlie  wicked  eyes  narrowed  into  the  little  slit 
the  child  knew  so  well.  It  was  always  dangerous 
for  the  \^iiite  skin  when  such  was  the  case.  Back 
into  the  loving  arms  sank  the  now  white  Midge. 

"It's  the  boy  I  know,"  answered  Bill,  in  cool, 
measured  tones,  "and  I'll  take  him,  if  you  please, 
and  I'll  teach  him  not  to  lie  about  a  good  man. 
There  is  no  such  gentleman  here  as  that  name, 
and  never  has  been  since  this  gentleman  left  the 
house/' 

Then  there  dawned  upon  the  child's  mind  the 
fact  that  the  real  man  had  been  done  away  with, 
^nd  that  Bill  Maglone  was  in  the  plot.  But  now 
he  was  so  eager  to  escape  the  beating  he  would 
get  that  he  ca»g£^t  the  hand  under  the  volumin- 
ous ruffles  and  held  on  to  it.  Bill  reached  to  lift 
the  child  out,  but  Hilda,  paled  by  the  pathos  in 
j  the  startled  eyes,  held  up  her  hand. 

"I  want  him  to  buy  me  some  flowers,  sir,"  said 
^he,  not  releasing  her  hold  upon  the  child.    "He 


164  A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS. 

knows  just  what  I  want.  I  will  send  him  home 
with  the  money,  if  you  will  let  him  go." 

Gerson  came  forward.  He  reached  for  the  boy. 
^^I  will  get  you  the  flowers,  Mrs.  Brittle/^  said 
he.    "The  child  will  only  be  in  the  way." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Wentworth,"  answered 
Hilda,  not  heeding  the  imperative  look  in  the 
jeyes  of  the  man.  "No  one  can  purchase  flowers 
like  the  child." 

Bill  was  giving  in.  No  harm  had  come  by  the 
tattling  of  Midge.  The  storm  had  blown  over^ 
and  the  beating  would  wait.  Why  not  let  the  kid 
make  a  quarter  if  he  could?  It  would  buy  the 
drinks  for  the  evening. 

Ruth  petitioned  that  the  child  should  go  with 
them,  and  Gerson  had  to  admit  that  he  was  de- 
feated. The  thought  flashed  through  his  mind 
that  Ruth  did  not  believe  the  story  Bill  had  told. 
Bhe  was  so  cold,  and  then  why  should  she  stroke 
the  curls  of  that  miserable  boy?" 

As  they  slowly  drove  along  toward  the  corner, 
the  maB  excused  himself  and  when  the  party  was 
out  of  aight,  went  back. 


A  CHILD   OF   THE  SLUMS.  165 

.  He  met  the  man,  whittling  as  carelessly  as 
ever. 

"That  kid  almost  fixed  me/'  Gerson  said, 
.gloomily*  "He  has  too  long  a  tongue.  Look  here, 
whose  kid  is  he,  anyway?'^ 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Bill.  "A  woman  came 
here  one  night  and  died,  leaving  the  kid.  She 
said  that  the  papers  she  left  were  to  be  sent  to  a 
certain  man,  but  as  der  old  woman  decided  to 
keep  the  kid  she  burned  the  letters." 

"That  was  not  wise.  They  might  have  meant  a 
lot  of  money  to  you." 

A  wobbly  head,  covered  with  short  grey  locks, 
inside  the  window,  raised  as  Mag  heard  these 
words.  With  the  cunning  of  her  kind  she  went 
into  the  other  room  and  took  a  bunch  of  letters 
and  an  official-looking  document  from  a  box  and 
put  them  safely  under  a  plank  in  the  floor.  Some 
time  after  she  saw  Bill  fumbling  with  the  box. 
She  knew  that  the  words  of  the  man  had  taken 
root.  When  he  asked  her  what  became  of  the 
letters  and  papers  she  said,  with  a  conviction  of 
truth  in  her  tone,  that  she  had  burned  them  long 
ago.    The  man  believed  it,  and  the  thought  that 


166  A   CHILD   OP   THE  SLUMS. 

Midge  might  be  worth  something  faded  from  hl^ 
mind. 

He  went  into  the  cellar  where  the  man  was  still 
fastened  to  a  table-leg.  Mag  had  fixed  a  place 
for  him  to  rest,  and  he  was  sleeping. 

''Wake  up/'  shouted  Bill.  ''I  want  to  talk  to 
you.  Gerson  has  been  here  and  the  fact  of  it  is, 
that  he  is  trying  to  get  your  money  and  your 
girl.  Now,  if  you  will  give  me  more  than  he  will, 
I  will  let  you  go  and  help  you  along.'' 

The  dazed,  sleepy  look  was  fading  from  his 
ej^es,  and  Frank  Wentworth  sat  up. 

''What  are  you  talking  about?  Bribing  a  man 
that  you  might  sell  your  soul?.  Miserable  dog,  I 
would  rather  stay  in  this  place  until  I  rot  before 
I  would  give  you  blood  money.'^ 

"Oh,  you  would,  would  you?  Weil,  I  think 
after  a  time  of  it  youse  won't  be  so  pert.  Don't 
youse  know  dat  I  could  finish  you  in  just  twenty 
minutes?'^ 

The  trap-door  was  open,  and  Bill  could  hear 
Mag  moving  uneasily  about. 

"You  can  kill  me,'^  the  woman  heard  the  sick 


A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS.  167 

man  say,  "but  the  law  will  require  my  life  at 
}  our  hands/' 

"The  law  will  have  to  find  it  out  first,  my! 
rooster/'  sneered  Bill.  "Now,  you  takes  youse 
choice;  I  want  to  get  through  with  this  business.''^ 

Frank  Wentworth  laid  his  weary  head  ui>on 
his  hand.  Was  it  right  to  buy  his  freedom  and 
pay  the  money  into  the  hands  of  his  murderer? 
But  what  was  it  the  fellow  had  said  about  Ruth? 
He  had  said  that  his  girl  was  in  danger  of  being 
harmed  by  Gerson.  But  he  could  not  sacrifice  his 
manhood  for  even  the  girl  he  loved. 


168  A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Hilda  Brittle  made  up  her  mind  not  to  allow 
Midge  to  go  again  to  the  Bowery  home.  She  was 
afraid  that  the  man  would  kill  him  for  the  part 
he  had  taken  in  the  Gerson  master.  She  knew  the 
child  was  speaking  the  truth,  but  did  not  dare  to 
let  Ruth  know  it.  She  had  made  up  her  mind, 
though,  that  if  it  came  to  the  test  she  would  tell 
w^hat  she  knew. 

She  confided  in  Ruth  that  she  wanted  to  take 
the  child  home  with  her.  They  drove  up  the  ave- 
nue, and  Midge  wondered  why  they  did  not  stop 
at  the  flower  store.  On  and  on,  up  the  broad  ave- 
nue, the  prancing  horses  made  their  way.  The 
women  were  silent  and  the  boy  happy.  He  would 
rather  ride,  with  the  white  hand  holding  his,  than 
be  home  on  the  Bowery. 

That  evening  the  child  confided  in  the  loving 
ear  of  Hilda  that  he  thought  they  had  harmed 
the  real  PYank  Wentworth. 


A  CHILD   OP   THE  SLUMS.  169 

^*They  may  have  put  him  in  the  vault  under  the 
liouse,'^  ventured  the  child.  "Do  you  think  they 
would  do  such  a  thing?'' 

"I  do  not  know,"  absently  replied  Hilda.  "Who 
are  you,  little  Midge?  Can  you  not  tell  me  some- 
thing of  your  mother?" 

"She's  dead,"  answered  the  child;  "I  know 
that,  for  I  heard  Mag  tell  Mr.  Frank  that  she 
€ame  with  me  one  winter  night  and  died  almost 
right  away.  There  were  some  letters,  but  der  old 
woman  burned  dem  up." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

^^Yep." 

*^I  wonder  if  there  would  be  any  chance  of  your 
getting  hold  of  them?"  said  Hilda. 

"I  might  steal  ^em,  if  you  want  me  to;  I 
wouldn't  mind." 

Hilda  drew  the  fair  head  toward  her.  She  al- 
ready loved  the  little  man. 

"We  won't  let  you  steal  them,  little  lad,"  said 
«he,  "for  now  you  are  going  to  be  my  boy  you  will 
liave  to  be  the  best  child  in  the  world." 

The  promise  was  readily  given,  and  long  hours 
after  the  child  slept  the  woman  sat  beside  him 


170  A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS. 

and  wove  in  fantastic  figures  the  months  of  the 
life  which  would  follow  for  them  both. 

Euth,  too,  came  in  and  sat  with  Hilda  and  they 
talked  over  the  situation.    Both  women  believed  ' 
that  something  had  happened  to  the  young  man. 

Kuth  wanting  to  know  the  truth,  the  girls  de- 
termined to  send  for  Mr.  Brittle  and  abide  by  his 
calm  judgment. 

So,  although  he  had  much  business  on  handj^ 
Tom  came  at  the  call  of  his  wife,  and  around  the 
bad  man,  Gerson,  was  woven  a  net  which  would 
so  entangle  him  that  he  would  not  be  able  to 
escape  from  it. 

Frank  Wentworth  was  rather  sorry  that  he 
had  not  taken  the  offer  of  the  wretch.  The  more 
he  thought,  the  more  his  heart  went  out  to  tue 
lovely  girl  that  he  had  loved  all  these  long  years. 
Oh,  to  see  her  again!  To  be  with  her!  Sud- 
denly, as  a  light  from  Heaven,  came  the  thought 
that  maybe  the  aunt  had  lied  to  him  in  that 
dreadful  letter,  and  Ruth  might  not  be  the  wife 
of  another !  The  longer  he  thought  the  more  than 
likely  seemed  the  idea.    Maybe  she  was  thinking 


A  CHILD  OF   THE   SLUMS.  17| 

of  him  and  wondering  why  he  had  not  returned 
to  her. 

Thai  night,  when  Mag  brought  him  his  dinner, 
he  asktid  her  what  it  was  that  her  husband  had 
been  trying  to  tell  him.  Was  it  really  a  young 
girl  waiting  for  him,  and  what  was  her  name? 

"She  are  a  good-looking  girl,  if  it  be  the  one  I 
saw,''  wheedled  the  old  woman ;  "and  if  you  will 
give  in  to  Bill,  he  will  let  you  out.  You  can  spare 
the  money  from  the  fortune  you  have  been  left." 

"I  do  not  know  anything  ab6ut  it.  Do  you  and 
your  husband  mean  to  keep  me  here  until  I  con- 
sent?" 

"That  is  about  the  size  of  it,  I  think,"  said 
the  woman,  as  she  let  the  trap-door  down  with  a 
snap. 

Would  no  one  miss  him?  What  about  the  lit- 
tle Midge?  Then  Frank  decided  that  no  one  knew 
he  was  there. 

Bill  came  home  drunk,  accompanied  by  Ger» 
son,  who  said  he  would  have  a  talk  with  the  pris« 
oner. 

Opening  the  trap-door  the  self-appointed  heir 
descended  into  the  room  below,  with  a  shudder. 


tHZ  A   CHILD  OF   THE  SLUMS. 

He  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  appeariBg  be* 
fore  the  accusing  eyes  of  the  captive  man.  Lift- 
ing the  candle  high  above  his  head  he  looked 
about. 

Frank  opened  his  eyes. and  saw  the  intruder*; 
Something  significant  certainly  was  meant  about 
the  visit  or  the  man  would  not  be  there. 

"Have  you  come  to  torture  me  in  my  agony  ?'^ 
asked  Frank. 

"No;  only  to  talk  some  sense  into  your  stub- 
born head.  I  do  not  want  to  have  trouble  with 
you,  but  you  should  not  have  virtually  died  the 
way  you  did,  making  it  imperative  that  I  should 
step  into  your  place  and  become  Frank  Went- 
worth.  Now,  then,  this  is  what  I  want  you  to  do. 
Your  health  is  poor  and  you  cannot  bear  the 
^strain  of  close  confinement  much  longer.  If  you 
stay  in  this  place  it  will  mean  a  grave  for  sure 
this  time.  So  you  might  as  well  understand  that 
i  will  not  allow  you  to  escape  until  I  have  had 
my  own  way.    I  intend  to  marry  Kuth  Ferris." 

A  groan  deep  and  long  escaped  the  lips  of  the 
confined  man.    He  passed  his  hand  over  his  face 


A   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS.  173 

in  a  way  which  would  indicate  that  the  tears 
were  very  near  the  surface. 

"That  is  more  than  I  can  stand,  Dick." 

The  old  loving  name  fell  from  the  lips  with  the 
past  intonation. 

"You  will  have  to  bear  it,  for  she  has  already 
consented  to  become  my  wife.  I  will  admit  that 
she  was  true  to  you  for  years,  but  you  know  that 
she  now  thinks  you  are  dead." 

This  lie  about  Euth  having  promised  to  be  an- 
other's wife  served  to  cause  the  sick  man  great 
agony.  Why  had  he  wasted  so  many  precious 
years  and  months?  Why  had  he  not  found  his 
darling  and  taken  her  to  his  heart  long  ago? 

"If  you  will  give  up  your  claim  upon  your 
name,"  began  Gerson,  "I  will  see  that  you  go 
away  without  any  more  trouble.  Your  word  is 
all  I  want.  I  know  of  old  that  you  will  not  lie. 
Will  you  give  me  your  promise?" 

Now,  Frank  Wentworth's  mother  had  taught 
him  that  to  swear  was  one  of  the  worst  crimes  a 
boy  could  commit.  He  had  never  lost  his  temper 
enough  to  use  profane  language,  but  here  in 
this  lonely  vault,  with  the  flickering  of  a  dirty 


174  ^   CHILD   OF   THE   SLUMS. 

candle,  he  ejaculated,  as  he  dropped  upon  the  old 
mattress  which  Mag  had  arranged : 

"I'll  be  damned  if  I  do !    I'll  trust  to  luck,  and 
I'll  yet  see  you  behind  the  bars." 
'     Gerson  uttered  an  oath,  and,  blowing  out  the 
candle,  he  guided  himself  up  the  narrow  stairs. 

Brittle  found  his  wife  anxious  to  see  him. 
Midge  had  been  given  a  scouring,  his  beautiful 
<?urls  arranged  by  the  maid  and  the  little  white 
suit  standing  out  straight  and  stiff. 

Tom  laughed  as,  taking  the  youngster  in  his 
arms,  he  kissed  the  pink  face  with  satisfaction. 

"Certainly,  he  is  a  winner,"  said  the  big  fel- 
low to  Hilda,  who  displayed  Midge  with  pride. 

"He  is  not  going  to  swear  any  more,"  said  she ; 
*^are  you  Midge?  And  then  when  he  goes  to  school 
all  the  children  will  think  he  is  such  a  nice  boy." 

"What  did  the  old  people  think  of  giving  him 
up  to  you?"  asked  Brittle. 

"I  didn't  ask  them,  I  just  took  him,"  answered 
Hilda,  innocently,  giving  Midge  another  kiss. 
'     Brittle   went   into   fits   of   laughter.      Hilda 
fxUsLed,  while  the  boy  looked  surprised. 


A   CHILD   OF  THH  SLUMS.  175 

**Why,  little  woman/^  said  Tom,  as  soon  as  he 
could  get  his  breath,  "they  will  be  after  you  for 
kidnapping  before  the  day  is  out.  You  can't  take 
a  person's  child  without  asking." 

Midge  drew  nearer  to  Hilda. 

"Do  I  have  to  go  back?"  whimpered  he,  bob- 
bing his  curls  about  before  the  glass  with  pride. 
^^I  don't  like  Mag  and  Bill,  now  that  Mr.  Frank 
is  gone." 

"If  you  go,  little  lad,"  Brittle  said  assuringly, 
"you  shall  come  back  again.  We  will  go  with 
him  and  get  papers  of  release." 

With  a  sinking  heart  Midge  and  Hilda,  in  the 
cab  beside  Tom,  drove  to  the  slums. 

Mag  and  Bill  were  speculating  upon  the  advis- 
:^Mlity  of  hunting  for  the  child  at  all.  They  were 
r;  raid  of  calling  the  attention  of  the  police  to 
Heir  illicit  money  factory  under  the  walk. 

Then  Wentworth  would  be  found  and  all  their 
plans  ruined.  In  M^g's  mind  floated  the  scene 
lof  her  childhood.  The  river  which  ran  along  the 
Irish  home  appealed  to  her  sense  more  than 
anything  else.  If  the  young  man  in  the  cellar 
could  be  made  to  understand  that  he  must  come 


176  A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS. 

to  their  terms,  all  would  be  well.  But  a  mo: 
obdurate  man  could  not  be  found.  Gerson  hi\ 
not  come  again,  and  all  the  torturing  of  the  lii. 
den  man  had  been  done  by  Bill,  added  to  ^ilag 
coaxing. 

Brittle  and  Hilda,  holding  tightly  to  Midge 
hand,  walked  into  the  shanty. 

"Oh,  you're  back,  are  you,  kid?''  sneered  Mag,, 
trying  to  put  her  hand  upon  the  child's  arm. 
^^It's  about  time  you  came  back  and  did  the  work 
for  youse  poor  mother." 

Brittle  lifted  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of  impa- 
tience. Midge  only  tightened  his  grasp  upon  the 
white  fingers,  which  gave  back  an  answering 
pressure. 

"Have  you  any  papers  about  the  parentage  of 
this  child?"  asked  Tom.  "If  you  have,  it  will  be 
to  your  advantage  to  produce  them." 

"The  child  was  left  here  one  dark  night  by  ita 
mother.  She  is  dead  and  Midge  has  been  here 
ever  since." 

"Then  she  left  some  letters  or  something.  I 
will  give  you  one  hundred  dollars  to  give  them 
to  me." 


A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS.  17/ 

'^Don't  want  to  give  up  the  kid/'  obstinately 
said  the  hag,  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  Bill,  whx  v 
had  remained  quiet  during  the  interview. 

"But  you  will  be  made  to  give  him  up,-  ^^^^ . 
Brittle,  sharply,  "so  you  might  as  well  get  name 
good  out  of  it.  If  the  court  takes  him  away  or 
the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Chil- 
dren, you  will  get  nothing.  Now,  what  do  jou 
say?  May  I  have  the  papers  for  one  hxmdredi 
dollars?'^ 

"You  may  have  the  kid  for  that  price,"  drawled 
Bill. 

"No,  I  am  not  buying  flesh,"  said  Tom,  "Yoa 
have  some  letters;  these  you  will  give  to  me." 

Bill  looked  at  Mag.  She  gave  him  a  knowing: 
wink.    Together  they  stepped  into  the  yard. 

"You'd  better  give  the  kid  for  the  money,"  said 
the  man ;  "and  if  youse  got  any  papers,  hand  'em 
over." 

Mag  entered  the  house  again  and  went  mysteri- 
ously into  the  inner  room,  where  she  and  Bill 
slept. 

Then,  coming  out,  she  knelt  upon  the  floor,, 


178  ^  CHILD  OF   THE   SLUMS. 

loosened  a  board  and  shoved  her  hand  into  the 
opening. 

Suddenly  a  long,  deep  groan  fell  upon  the  ear 
of  the  eager  watchers.  Brittle  stepped  upon 
Hilda's  foot  to  enjoin  silence.  Midge  was  too 
well  trained  to  move  a  lash. 

So  the  incident  passed  unnoticed.  Mag  drew 
out  the  bunch  of  papers  and  hastily  »lammed 
down  the  plank. 

^^Now,  you'll  give  me  the  money  'fore  you  get 
dese,"  said  she,  sullenly. 

"I  must  first  be  assured  that  they  are  the  ones 
I  want." 

Mag  gingerly  unfolded  the  package  of  letters, 
took  out  a  little  slip  and  placed  it  in  Brittle's 
hand. 

This  is  what  he  read : 

'When  I  am  dead,  notify  Tom  Brittle,  48  Wall 
street,  and  tell  him  I  stole  the  little  golden- 
haired  child  from  a  woman  on  the  train. 

"Agnes  Brittle.^' 

For  a  few  moments  Tom  Brittle  looked  so 
dazed  at  the  paper  in  his  hand  that  Hilda  thought 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.  lYf 

he  was  ilL  She  leaned  over  and  murmured, 
^*Dear  Tom,  has  anything  happened ?'' 

The  answer  was  the  slip.  Hilda  read,  with 
mingled  emotions,  the  little  deathbed  plea,  know- 
ing full  well  that  she  had  recovered  her  child. 

"He  is  mine  after  all,  Tom,"  screamed  she, 
gathering  Midge  into  her  close  embrace.  "My 
little  lost  Dicky !    Oh,  my  baby,  my  baby !" 

Still  Tom  Brittle  did  not  move.  Back  into  the 
past,  like  a  glint  of  vivid  lightning  in  the  sky, 
went  his  mind,  to  that  little  sister,  Agnes,  and 
the  awful  uncertainty  of  her  fate.  How  the  dear 
mother  had  mourned  her  as  dead!  None  knew 
where  she  had  gone.  And  all  these  years  she  was 
lying  in  Potter's  Field! 

Mechanically  he  handed  out  the  five  twenty 
dollar  bills  to  Mag.  Then  he  opened  the  letters 
and  for  a  long  time  read,  read  with  tears  cours- 
ing down  his  cheeks,  his  heart  filled  with  pain. 

There  was  no  mistake  about  the  dead  woman, 
and  Hilda  knew  that  she  had  found  her  child. 
Only  Midge  kept  his  eye  upon  the  board  where 
the  groan   came   from,  and  through  the  alert^ 


;180  A   CHILD   OP   THE   SLUMS. 

childish  mind  swept  the  idea  that  Frank  Went* 
worth  was  being  held  there  against  his  will. 

He  did  not  dare  to  mention  the  fact,  but  waited 
until  they  were  safely  out  of  doors. 

Brittle  asked  many  questions  about  the  girl 
Avho  had  tottered  into  the  house  those  years  ago. 
and  had  died  before  help  could  be  brought  her, 
Mag  made  the  most  of  her  action  and  the  care 
w^hich  had  been  given  the  child. 

Brittle  handed  her  four  hundred  dollars  more, 
as  appreciation,  before  going,  making  her  sign  a 
receipt  and  also  a  release  upon  the  child. 

Midge  watched  with  large,  wondering  eyes  the 
transaction,  not  understanding  it  all.  He  only 
knew  that  a  pair  of  tense  white  arms  were  about 
his  neck,  and  passionate  kisses  were  ever  being 
showered  upon  his  little  upturned  mouth. 

"Do  you  understand,  fittle  boy,"  whispered 
Hilda,  "that  you  are  my  very  own  little  lost 
baby?    That  I  am  your  mother?" 

"Thank  youse,''  answered  Midge,  gravely.  "I 
w^ants  a  mother.  Mine  is  dead,"  and  Midge 
pointed  a  little  finger  in  the  direction  of  the 
/river. 


A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS.  18£ 

*^But  I  am  your  own  mother,  Midge;  it  was  not 
yours  that  died;  I  was  your  mother  when  you 
were  a  little  baby.  And  a  poor,  sick  girl  stole 
you  from  me*  I  will  never  let  my  little  Dicky 
go  away  again." 

Lovingly  did  the  mother  repeat  over  the  name, 
while  she  smoothed  back  the  curls  which  covered 
the  little  head. 

Brittle  was  talking  about  the  woman,  glean- 
ing all  the  news  he  could  for  the  little  Puritan 
mother  of  the  dead  up  in  the  hills  of  New  York. 

Mag  wanted  to  keep  the  money  after  the  car- 
riage had  driven  away,  but  Bill  simply  held  out 
his  hands,  and  the  bills  were  transferred. 

"Did  you  hear  the  noise  he  madQ  when  I  opened 
the  board?"  asked  Mag,  jerking  her  finger  in  the 
direction  of  the  trap. 

"I  think  I  did,"  answered  Bill,  "and  I'll  see 
.  that  he  don't  do  it  again." 

"What  is  youse  going  to  do?"  asked  Mag,  lay- 
ing a  detaining  hand  upon  BilPs  arm. 

"Going  to  close  his  trap  forever !" 

Mag  shuddered  as  she  saw  Bill  take  the  heavjr 


183  A   CHILD   OP   THE  SLUMS. 

thongs  from  the  hook.     His  face  was  awful  to 
behold. 

Should  she  allow  him  to  enter  that  lower  room 
and  torture  the  youth  in  his  distress?  When  Mag 
made  up  her  mind  she  generally  had  her  way. 

^^Now,  don't  do  anything  like  dat,  Bill/'  argued 
she,  "fer  I  ain't  goin'  back  to  Killarney  wid  d: 
death  groans  of  a  fellow  a-ringing  in  my  ears. 
Don't  do  it,  Bill." 

But  the  man  was  determined.  He  snapped  the 
long  whip  within  close  proximity  of  his  wife's 
face,  and  with  a  sneer  strode  to  the  trap-door. 

"If  youse  hurts  him,"  said  she,  with  a  fearful 
oath,  "then  I  will  bring  dis  ax  down  upon  youse 
pate  'fore  you  leaves  him  dead." 

Still  Bill  kept  on.  He  opened  the  door  and 
commenced  to  descend  the  steps  heavily. 

Mag  was  as  good  as  her  word.  She  raised  the 
ax  in  her  hand  to  let  it  fall  upon  the  old  grey 
head  as  it  disappeared,  but  the  weapon  of  death 
was  caught  from  behind.  Mag  turned  and  looked 
into  the  fleishing  eyes  of  Richard  Gerson. 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.  183 


CHAPTER  XIL 

As  the  Brittles  rolled  away  toward  Broadway, 
Midge  suddenly  spoke :  ^^I  t'inks  they  have  Mr. 
Frank  in  the  counterfeiters'  cellar." 

Brittle  called  for  the  coachman  to  wait,  as  he 
conferred  with  Hilda. 

^'We  ought  not  to  leave  a  fellow  being  in  a 
place  like  that.  Maybe  they  will  make  away  with 
him  now  before  help  will  come.'' 

^^Then  let's  go  back/'  said  Hilda,  bravely.  ^*I 
am  willing,  and  especially  if  it  might  be  Ruth's 
Frank.  I  am  so  happy,  darlings  now,  that  my 
heart  is  singing  all  the  time.  I  would  see  my 
little  friend  as  happy  as  I  am." 

Brittle  called  a  policeman  standing  on  the  cor- 
ner and  related  the  occurrence  to  him.  The  offi- 
cer called  two  more  and  Brittle  piloted  the  way 
to  the  hovel  they  had  just  left. 

Gerson,  in  taking  the  ax  from  the  hand  of  Mag 


184  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

and  the  scuffle  that  followed,  caused  Bill  to  re- 
ppear  again  from  the  cellar. 

'^What's  the  racket?''  yelled  he,  and  then,  see- 
rig  Gnerson,  he  sat  down  to  tell  the  story. 

Midge  was  the  son  of  Hilda,  then,  making  the 
^oj^  his  child,  so  thought  Gerson.  For  a  moment 
i^he  better  depths  stirred  in  the  man's  heart.  He 
<  iild  remember  the  shock  he  had  received  when 
first  seeing  the  child.  It  must  have  been  the  re- 
lation between  them,  and  the  striking  likeness  ta 
the  girl  he  himself  had  ruined. 

*^Now  the  kid  has  gone,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  with  him?"  pointing  toward  the  cellar. 

"Finish  him  and  take  the  body  away  to-night. 
1  ain't  going  to  be  bothered  any  more  wid  him.'' 

Gerson  started.  This  was  what  he  wanted.  To 
he  rid  of  the  man  would  be  Heaven,  indeed. 

"I  will  give  you  ten  thousand  dollars  if  you  put 
Mm  out  of  the  world  by  morning." 

Bill's  eyes  glittered.  Such  an  amount  had 
mever  been  placed  within  his  grasp  before.  How 
^much  could  be  done,  and,  as  Mag  said,  they  would 
.return  to  their  old  home  and  give  up  the  danger* 
aas  business  of  making  bad  money. 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.  185 

^*I'll  do  the  job/'  said  he,  with  a  satisfied  grunt. 

*^When?'' 

"As  soon  as  the  old  woman  goes  to  sleep.  She 
is  a  buggy  wench.'' 

Mag  was  crooning  over  a  pail  of  beer,  which 
had  stood  for  some  time,  but  it  was  all  the  same 
to  her  perverted  taste. 

"My  position  is  a  dangerous  one,"  went  on  Ger- 
son,  "and  with  that  man  living,  I  am  not  safe." 

Together  they  went  into  the  cellar  with  the 
smoky  little  candle.  Frank  lay  on  his  side,  sleep- 
ing. He  groaned  as  the  light  flashed  into  his 
face. 

"You  got  company,  Mr.  Frank,"  said  Bill,  lay- 
ing stress  upon  the  name  as  they  had  all  heard 
Midge  do;  "a  gentleman  to  see  youse  on  busi- 
ness." 

"To  settle  your  hash,  once  for  all,  Wentworth," 
sneered  Gerson.  "You  are  not  to  have  your  own 
way  any  longer." 

"Am  I  to  be  killed?"  asked  Frank,  wishing  that 
he  had  come  to  Bill's  terms,  and  yet  hating  him- 
self for  the  thought. 

"Youse  is  going  to  have  a  chance  for  youse 


186  A  CHILD  OP  THE  SLUMS. 

life/'  said  Bill,  and  Gerson  looked  at  the  man,, 
wonderingly. 

"He  is  goin'  to  fight  youse,  Mr.  Gerson,"  be- 
gan Bill,  with  a  wink ;  "his  muscles  are  so  strong 
dat  dere  ain't  no  chance  for  youse."  Bill  blinked 
lieavily  his  vile  eyes  and  Gerson  burst  into  loud 
laughter. 

"Now,  then,  we  will  start,"  and  Bill  unloos- 
ened the  chain  which  had  cut  deeply  into  the  leg 
of  Frank. 

Suddenly  Ruth  flashed  into  the  sick  man's 
mind.  Gerson  had  lied  to  him;  she  would  not 
take  him  as  her  husband.  Now  he  knew  that  he 
had  been  deceived  all  along  and  that  the  wicked 
old  woman  now  in  her  grave  had  told  him  a  false- 
hood in  the  letter  she  had  called  confidential. 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  staggering  for  the  want  of 
strength.  His  strong  face  shining  in  the  flicker- 
ing flame  caused  Bill  to  grunt. 

"I'll  see  dat  there  is  fair  play  fer  once/'  whis- 
pered he;  "the  bloke  sha'n't  be  de  one  to  cheat. '^ 

Frank  in  his  weakness  grasped  the  big  body 
of  Gerson.  Like  a  child  he  was  thrown  upon  the 
stone  floor.    Gerson^s  knee  was  upon  his  breast- 


A  CHILD   OP  THE   SLUMS.  187 

They  all  heard  a  commotion  upstairs,  and  Mag 
appeared  at  the  entrance  of  the  hole. 

"The  cops  is  here,  Bill,"  whispered  she;  "the 
cops  is  here." 

"Give  me  your  knife,  Bill,"  demanded  Gerson. 
"I  will  fix  this  throat  so  it  won't  tell  on  me." 

But  fate  had  willed  a  better  ending  for  the 
unhappy  Frank. 

Two  officers  pulled  the  fighting  man  from  his 
breast,  while  in  a  struggle  with  Bill  the  latter 
was  shot.  Brittle  raised  Frank  from  his  position 
and  almost  carried  him  into  the  open  day.  There 
Midge  greeted  him  with  tears  of  joy. 

"She  is  my  own  mudder  from  the  baby  days," 
said  he,  pointing  proudly  to  Hilda,  and  she,  anxi- 
ous over  her  friend  waiting  for  news  of  a  lover 
which  never  came,  asked  him  about  Ruth,  and 
if  he  had  ever  known  such  a  girl. 

"I  have  always  loved  her,"  sobbed  Frank,  weak 
from  his  trial,"  but  thank  God,  I  shall  see  her 
soon." 

It  did  not  take  the  party  long  to  get  to  the 
Mathers'  home. 


188  A   CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS. 

Euth  little  knew  what  happiness  was  in  store 
for  her. 

All  the  morning  she  had  restlessly  walked  the 
'  floor,  waiting  for  the  return  of  the  Brittles.  She 
was  so  glad  for  the  little,  loving  mother-heart 
that  Hilda  had  found  some  child  to  take  the  place 
of  her  own  lost  darling.  She  did  not  yet  know 
that  Midge  was  the  little  lost  Dick. 

She  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  anxiety. 
The  very  vibration  of  the  air  seemed  to  tell  her 
something  had  happened.  Hilda  was  now  run- 
ning up  the  stairs,  with  Midge  by  the  hand. 

The  sight  of  the  pale  girl  reduced  her  to  tears. 

'^Darling  Euth,"  cried  she,  "this  little  lad  is 
my  own  baby,  and  poor  Tom  found  in  the  woman 
who  took  Dicky,  his  own  sister.  We  are  going  to 
have  her  taken  from  Potter's  Field  and  brought 
to  the  family  plot.  She  was  deceived  by  a  man 
and  her  baby  died.  Tom's  people  never  knew  what 
became  of  her." 

"Yep,  and,"  shouted  Dicky,  willing  to  tell  all 

the  news,  "you  does  not "    Hilda  placed  her 

hand  over  the  little  mouth.  She  chided  the  child, 
and  the  youngster  subsided,  sitting  like  a  little 


A   CHILD  OF   THE   SLUMS.  189 

drum-major,  watching  with  big  eyes  as  the  two 
women  cried  in  each  other's  arms. 

"I'm  so  glad  that  you  are  happy,  Hilda.  If  my 
lot  were  only  as  easy!  I  have  no  faith  in  that 
awful  man  who  is  constantly  urging  me  to  be  his  ^ 
wife,  and  yet  I  cannot  be  impolite  and  let  him 
know  that  I  think  he  is  masquerading  under  false 
colors." 

"Dat's  what  he  was,"  shouted  the  irrepressible 
Dick. 

"Hush,  Dicky,  dear,"  again  chided  the  gentle 
mother. 

"If  I  only  knew  that  Frank  were  well,  and  not 
in  trouble,"  whispered  Ruth,  "I  would  be  happy. 
The  summer  will  seem^  so  long  again.  I  think  I 
shall  go  to  Europe." 

"And  take  me,  too,  and  mama,  and  the  big 
papa?"  this  from  Dicky,  who  could  not  see  why 
ie  could  not  talk  as  he  wanted  to,  to  his  new' 
Aunt  Ruth.  Then  came  the  last  and  the  best. 
Ruth  had  suffered  long  and  much.  It  is  well  be- 
fore closing  this  story  of  human  love  and  human 
AYoes  to  give  the  brave  little  heroine  her  happi- 
ness. 


190  A   CHILD  OP   THE  SLUMS. 

Hilda  took  the  girl  by  the  arm  and  led  her  to 
the  music  room. 

^*I  want  you  to  play  for  me,  dear,"  said  she, 
^^for  I  am  so  happy  to-night." 

Kuth  sat  at  the  piano,  not  knowing  that  a  very 
tall,  pale  young  man  was  standing  looking  at  her. 
She  played  on  for  a  few  moments,  singing  that 
old-time  song, 

^The  hours  I've  spent  with  you,  dear  heart. 
Are  as  a  string  of  pearls  to  me," 

w^hen  a  sound  at  the  back  of  the  room,  strangely 
like  a  human  groan,  aroused  her  from  the  little 
dirge-like  melody  she  was  playing. 

Into  her  dark  eyes  were  looking  two  darker 
ones.  Into  a  pair  of  waiting  arms  the  girl  glided. 
She  needed  no  one  to  tell  her  who  the  being  was ; 
her  heart  had  fastened  itself  upon  the  rock,  and 
Euth  was  happy  at  last ! 

^'And  I  have  waited  for  you  so  many  years !" 
f  .sobbed  she,  stroking  the  pale  face.  "And  what 
liave  they  done  with  that  dreadful  man?" 

^^ We  will  not  speak  of  him  any  more,"  said 


A   CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.  191 

Frank,  "for  with  his  own  hand  he  ended  a  bad 

life." 

Hilda  and  Brittle  crept  in.  Dicky  was  prancing 
for  joy  as  he  saw  the  two,  Euth  and  Frank,  in 
each  other's  arms. 

"Ain't  dat  nice,  old  bloke?"  he  asked  lovingly 
of  Frank.    "She  am  der  daisy  in  the  locket.'' 

"Yes,  I  have  back  my  darling,  thanks  to  you," 
said  Frank,  and  Hilda  and  Tom  left  the  lovers 
to  their  happiness. 

Dicky  was  being  put  to  bed.  His  little  face 
was  snuggled  into  the  pillows,  and  after  he  had 
fallen  asleep  his  father  and  mother  stood  over 
the  child. 

"Isift  he  a  beautiful  youngster?"  said  Tom, 
with  pride.  "I  wish  we  had  a  little  fellow  of  our 
own,  dear."  ( 

Hilda's  face  covered  with  blushes  as  she  re- 
turned :  "Dearest,  if  lots  of  little  children  play 
about  us  and  call  us  by  the  dearest  names  in  the 
world,  we  will"  (and  here  Hilda  stooped  and 
kissed  the  shining  yellow  hair)  "we  will  never 
forget  this  dear  little  Child  of  the  Slums." 

THE  END. 


Books  By  Florence  Edna  Mc/ 

THE   UNWANTED  CHJ.D 

In  her  book  founded  on  the. 
famous  play  of  the  same  name 
the  author  has  woven  a  story  of 
pastoral  life,  showing  the  diffi' 
pulties  experienced  by  one  of 
these  children.  With  the  gifted 
pen  of  an  able  writer  she  wenves 
a  plot  true  to  life,  with  touches 
of  shame  and  loathing,  hatred  and 
rascality,  pride  and  power,  failure 
and  success,  and  fin<ally  happijiess 
and  love  crowning  all. 
Those  who  enjoy  a  new  note  in   fiction  and   a 

good  love  story  should  not  fail  to  read  this  great  life 

romance. 

Other  books  by  the  same  author: 

THE  UNMARRIED  MOTHER.  Founded  upon  the 
play.  Read  how  the  kindly  hand  of  Protecting 
Providence  delivers  this  wisp  of  exquisite  woman** 
hood  from  the  toils  of  a  merciless  fate. 

THE  UNLOVED  WIFE.  Founded  upon  the  play. 
Does  your  husband  really  love  you>  Should  th© 
woman  be  tied  to  the  house  while  the  man  doe» 
as  he  pleases.      Read  the  answers  in  this  book. 

THE  REVELATIONS  OF  A  WIFE.  Founded  upon 
the  play.  You  will  read  w'ith  throbbing  heart 
this  beautiful  story  of  love. 

/  Each  of  these  books  is  printed  from  good  clear 

'  type  and  is  bound  in  paper  cover  with  design  printed 
in  2  colors.     Price,  25  cents  each,  sent  postpaid. 

3.  S.  OGILVIE  PUBUSHING  CO. 
57  ROSE  STREET  NEW  YORK,  N.  Y. 


\^hi--  ''m 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subjea  to  immediate  recall. 

T-r — :.  la  rccfjil  aiOf-.  -t^^fa  ^    l^' — — 


MJ$  m*^m 


!LL 


APR  1  1  1997 

U.  C.  BERKELEY 
SENYONILL — 

OCT  0  8  1997 

U.  C.  BERKELEY 


■  H>li'^7^?7i;l'R,  Univ'^^t^t'-O.'iiSrnia 


YB  40132 


970514  ■ 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY         H 


40  POPULAR  NOVELS 
WRITTEN   FROn   PLAYS. 

We  desire  to  call  your  attention  to  the  following  list  of  novels  written 
from  the  Popular  Plays,  which  are  being  presented  in  various  part^  of  the 
country.    They  contain  about  200  pages  each,  with  illustration   from  the 
Play,  and  are  bound  in  handsome  paper  cover  printed  in  five  coiors. 
PRICE,     55    CENTS   EACH. 

AFTER  MIDNIGHT.    B y  Finley  Fauley. 

THE  CHILD  SLAVES  OF  NEW  YORK.   By  Blaney  &  Hall. 

CORSE  PAYTON'S  JOKE  BOOK.    By  Corse  Pay  to:  \ 

DRIVEN  FROM  HOME      i^y  Grace  Miller  White. 

A  DESPERATE  CHANCE     By  Olive  Harper. 

FRANCESCA  DA  RIMIN  i      By  George  Morehead. 

THE  FACTORY  GIRL.    Bv  Charles  K  Blaney. 


THE  FATAL  WEDDING.    By  Louis  G.  Menke. 

FOR  HER  CHILDREN'S  SAKE.    By  Theodore  Kremer. 

JOE  WELCH  THE  PEDDLER,    By  Grace  Miller  White. 

**  NELL  GWYN."    By  George  Morehead.  [M.  Russell. 

THE    LITTLE   CHURCH   AROUND  THE  CORNER.      By 

A  MIDNIGHT  MARRIAGE.    By  Grace  Miller  White. 

NATHAN  HALE:  THE  MARTYll SPY.  By Chas.  W.  Brown. 

NO  WEDDING  BELLS  FOR  HER.  By  Gra<3e  Miller  White. 

ONLY  A  SHOP  GIRL.    By  M.  W.  Stirling  and  C.  E.  Blaney. 

QUEEN  OF  THE  WHITE  SLAVES.  By  Grace  Miller  White. 

RACHEL  GOLDSTEIN.    By  Grace  Miller  White. 

ROBERT  EMMET.    By  George  Morehead. 

SKY  FARM.    By  Grace  Miller  White. 

THE  SHOW  GIRL.    By  Olive  Harper. 

THE  STORY  OF  FRANCO  IS  VILLON.   By  Geo.  Morehead. 

THE  TWO  ORPHANS.    By  R.  D'Ennery. 

THE  VOLUNTEER  ORGANIST.    By  William  B.  Gray. 

UNCLE  TOM^S  CABIN.    Bv  Mrs.  H.  B.  Stowe. 

A  WORKING  GIRL'S  WRONGS.    By  Hal  Reid. 

WEDDED  AND  PARTED.    By  Theodore  Kremer. 

WEDDED,  BUT  NO  WIFE.    By  Grace  Miller  White. 

WHEN  WOMEN  LOVE.    By  Grace  Miiicr  White. 

WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.    By  H.  V.  Esmond. 

'WAY  DOWN  EAST.    By  Joseph  R.  Grismer. 

A  RAGGED  HERO.    By  Grace  Miller  White. 

WHY  WOMEN  SIN.    By  Grace  Miller  White. 

A  WORKING  GIRL'S  WRONGS.    By  Hal  Reid. 

A  CHILD  OF  THE  SLUMS.    By  Grace  Miller  White. 

HUMAN  HEARTS     By  Grace  Miller  White. 

THE  CURSE  OF  DRINK.    By  Charles  E.  Blaney. 

FOR  HIS  BROTHER'S  CRIME.    By  Charles  E.  Blaney. 

THE  WAIFS'  PARADISE.    By  Howard  Hall. 

THE  SHADOWS  OF  A  GREAT  CITY.    By  Grace  M.  White. 

THE  SORCERESS.    By  George  Morehead. 

The  above  books  are  for  sale  by  Newsdealers  and  Booksellers  every- 
where, or  they  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postpaid,  to  any  address  for  25  cents 
each,  or  any  five  books  for  $1.00.    AddrevSS  all  orders  to 

J.  8.  OGILYIE  PUBLISHING  CO,,  67  Rose  St.,  New  York. 


